«  2130609 


.  OF  CALIF.  LIBRARY.  LOS  ANGELES 


THE   WHIPS   OF    TIME 


I    AM    GRATEFUL     FOR     LORD    ANTHONY'S    INTEREST,"     SHE     RE- 
TORTED. 

[Seepage  177.    Frontispiece 


THE  WHIPS  OF  TIME 


BY 

ARABELLA    KENEALY 

AUTHOR  OF   "DR.  JANET  OF   HARLEY   STREET,"  "WOMAN   AND 
THE    SHADOW,"    ETC. 


Illustrated  by 
THOMAS    MITCHELL   PEIRCE 


Boston 

Little,  Brown,  and  Company 
1909 


2130609 


Copyright, 
BY  LITTLE,  BROWN,  AND  COMPANY. 


All  rights  reserved 


Published  March,  1909 


BJectrotyped  and  Printed  at 
THE    COLONIAL    PRESS: 

C.H.  Simon ds  iS.Co^  Boston,  U.S. A, 


CONTENTS 


MAFTBK  FAGB 

PROLOGUE  —  THE  EXPERIMENT  i 

I.  TWENTY-THREE  YEARS  LATER        ...  14 

II.  HOMER  COTTAGE         .       .       .       .       .       .20 

III.  SCROPE-DENTON 31 

IV.  THE  MISSES  EPITHITE 37 

V.  "  THE  DUKE'S  LADY  " 44 

VI.  HESTROYDE  AND  LEGH 50 

VII.  JOAN .57 

VIII.  A  MEETING 65 

IX.  LOWOOD  CALLS  ON  LEGH        ....  74 

X.  A  HORSEWHIPPING 88 

XL  A  NOTE 98 

XII.  MRS.  BEAUMONT  OF  MOONBANK    .       .       .  107 

XIII.  ALMA 117 

XIV.  YOUNG  MUNNINGS 126 

XV.  A  LETTER  FROM  HUMMERSTONE     .       .       .  132 

XVI.  A  LUNCHEON  PARTY 142 

XVII.  FIRE! 151 

XVIII.  THE  DUKE  OF  SAXBY 163 

XIX.  UNCLE  TONY 169 

XX.  LORD  ANTHONY 179 

XXI.  CYRIL  HUMMERSTONE 183 

XXII.  PLOTS 192 

XXIII.  A  Kiss 203 

XXIV.  A  REBUFF 211 

XXV.  A  LOVERS'  QUARREL 218 

V 


VI 


XXVI.  PLAYING  WITH  FIRE  .     . 

XXVII.  STILL  PLAYING 

XXVIII.  HUMMERSTONE    COMES    BACK 

XXIX.  AFTER  THE  HONEYMOON 

XXX.  TROUBLE  AT  MOONBANK 

XXXI.  A  NEW  LEAF  .       . 

XXXII.  DEFEAT     ..... 

XXXIII.  JOAN  AND  MARK    . 

XXXIV.  A  LETTER  FROM  UNCLE  TONY 
XXXV.  PROFESSOR  HUMMERSTONE    . 

XXXVI.  BURGHWALLIS    RETURNS 

XXXVII.  FLIGHT 

XXXVIII.  THE  SEARCH    .       .       .       . 

XXXIX.  WITH  JOAN      .       ... 

XL.  INSOMNIA  .       .       .       . 

XLI.  SACCHARIN        .... 

XLII.  ILLNESS 

XLIII.  A  Box  OF  CHOCOLATES 

XLIV.  NEMESIS 

XLV.  THE  LAST 


PAG« 
227 

237 
250 

263 

273 
282 
288 
295 
302 
306 
3I2 

323 
3^ 

332 
338 

347 
353 
360 

364 
372 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


"  I   AM   GRATEFUL    TOR    LORD   ANTHONY'S   INTEREST," 

SHE  RETORTED Frontispiece 

THEN  HE  CAUGHT  HER  SLENDER  BODY  INTO  HIS  ARMS 

AND  STRENUOUSLY  KISSED  HER  .  .  .  Page  59 

THE  BECLOAKED,  FURRED  FIGURE  OF  A  WOMAN  HALF 

RUSHED,  HALF  FELL,  INTO  THE  ROOM  ..."  15! 
HER  GLASS  CRACKED  AND  FELL  IN  THREE  PIECES  AT 

HER   FEET "198 


THE  WHIPS  OF  TIME 


PROLOGUE 

THE   EXPERIMENT 

"  TELL  you  what  it  is,  Lowood !  There's  more  rub- 
bish talked  to  the  square  inch  than  there  are  fish  in  the 
sea.  Heredity!  Everything  is  environment.  A  baby 
comes  into  existence  with  its  brain  tablets  like  a  set 
of  blank  photograph  films.  From  the  moment  these 
are  exposed  to  the  light  —  long  before  the  child  ac- 
quires any  conscious  personality  —  the  sensitized  brain 
tablets  are  receiving  impressions!  The  resultant  con- 
sciousness is  the  sum  of  these.  The  child's  —  and 
subsequently  the  man's  or  woman's  —  character  is  the 
resultant  of  early  impressions,  plus  his  outside  condi- 
tions and  the  forces  with  which  he  has  to  contend. 
There  is  the  thing  in  a  nutshell.  Thanks!  I  don't 
mind  if  I  do.  Despite  your  theories  you  know  how 
to  brew  a  cup  of  coffee.  Or  perhaps  it  is  that  your 
apparatus  is  a  better  one  than  that  of  most  chaps." 

"  There  again  comes  in  your  materialism,"  Lowood 
said.  He  filled  his  friend's  cup  from  the  little  copper 
apparatus,  rather  grimy  without,  albeit  scrupulously 
clean  within,  in  which  it  was  his  custom  to  brew  his 
own  after-dinner  cup  upon  the  dining-table. 

"  You  forget  there  is  always  something  over  and 
above  that  which  can  be  seen  and  felt  and  weighed. 
Now  this  coffee,  for  instance.  I  will  give  you  the  cof- 


2  The  Whips  of  Time 

fee  caddy,  the  spoon  with  which  I  measured  out  my 
quantities,  water  from  the  same  jug,  a  fresh  wick,  and 
methylated  spirit  from  the  same  bottle.  You  shall 
weigh  and  measure  out  your  quantities  precisely  as  I 
have  done.  You  shall  let  the  coffee  stand  as  long, 
you  shall  pour  it  into  the  same  cup  and  put  the  same 
amount  of  milk  and  sugar  in  it.  Yet  I'll  take  any 
odds  you  like  that  your  coffee  will  be  as  different  from 
my  coffee  as  your  hair  is  different  from  mine,  or  as 
our  brains  are  different." 

He  smiled  quietly.  "  In  fact  I  don't  mind  betting 
you  that  your  coffee  will  be  abomination." 

"  Done !  "  exclaimed  Hummerstone.  "  Of  course, 
it's  all  sheer  rubbish  on  the  face  of  it.  You'll  be  tell- 
ing me  next  that  every  coffee-berry  has  a  soul." 

"  I  won't  go  so  far  as  that,  although  I  believe  it  has 
a  sort  of  rudimentary  individuality,  something  which 
distinguishes  it  from  its  fellows.  Every  leaf  on  every 
tree  is  different  from  every  other.  Every  plum  from 
the  same  plum-tree  has  a  flavour  of  its  own.  All 
that,  I  suppose,  is  individuality  —  and  individuality,  I 
suppose,  is  the  essential  of  a  soul." 

"Rubbish!  Rubbish!  Rubbish!"  interposed  a 
harsh,  derisive  voice. 

The  occasion  was  so  apt,  and  —  in  one  man's  opin- 
ion—  the  charge  so  true  that  both  men  broke  out 
laughing. 

"  You  see  even  the  fowls  of  the  air  deride  your 
extravagant  notions,"  Hummerstone  said. 

"  Polly !  you  traitor,  to  go  over  to  the  enemy ! " 
Lowood  turned  to  that  which  showed  in  the  dusk 
outside  the  circle  of  lamplight  as  a  formless  mass,  but 
which,  upon  closer  inspection,  proved  to  be  a  large 
cage,  muffled  in  a  dilapidated  green  baize  curtain. 
For  it  was  Polly's  habit,  when  curtained  for  the  night, 
to  wake  up  at  intervals  obsessed  by  a  sense  that  some- 
thing of  the  most  intensely  interesting  nature  was 
taking  place  on  the  other  side  of  her  shroud,  and  forth- 


The  Experiment  3 

with  to  gnaw  a  peep-hole  for  her  curiosity.  Now, 
through  a  recent  peep-hole  could  be  seen  a  patch  of 
grey  plumage,  and  a  shining,  bead-like  eye,  fixing  the 
movements  of  the  men  with  a  consuming  curiosity. 

Hummerstone  sitting  near  rearranged  the  curtain. 

"  Bad  bird,  Polly !  "  he  said.  "  You  go  to  bed  with 
you." 

Whereupon  PoHy  retorted  in  a  vituperative  tone: 

"  Old  Microbe!    Old  Microbe!  " 

The  men  laughed  again.  If  Polly  did  not  under- 
stand the  English  language  she  applied  such  words 
of  it  as  she  knew  with  an  appropriateness  which  made 
the  application  seem  all  the  more  clever. 

Lowood  moved  to  the  door,  the  coffee-apparatus  in 
a  hand. 

"  I'll  wash  it  out  in  the  bathroom.  Really,  I  haven't 
the  face  to  tell  Rose  we  are  going  in  for  a  second  in- 
stalment of  coffee.  I'll  be  back  in  two  seconds." 

He  was  back  in  two  minutes,  his  dark  face  eager 
and  keen.  As  he  came  he  took  out  his  handkerchief 
and  mopped  the  dripping  exterior  of  the  dingy  copper. 

"  I've  rinsed  it  thoroughly.  Not  a  trace  of  my  cof- 
fee remains  to  mitigate  the  flavour  of  yours.  Now, 
then,  fire  away !  " 

With  a  shrugged  shoulder  and  a  derisive  face, 
which  expressed  his  conviction  that  the  result  of  the 
experiment  was  a  foregone  conclusion,  Hummerstone 
measured  his  quantities  and  performed  the  various 
operations  which  his  friend  enjoined. 

He  was  a  man  of  fresh  complexion,  colourless  hair, 
and  a  clear,  cold  eye  of  blue,  of  a  curious,  unpleasing, 
flat  expression,  as  though  the  iris  were  an  outside 
wall,  instead  of  being  a  curtain  dropped  before  an 
inner  chamber. 

To  state  briefly  what  happened.  The  experiment 
turned  out  as  Lowood  had  predicted.  Not  only  was 
Hummerstone's  coffee  wholly  unlike  that  his  host  had 
made,  it  was  execrable. 


4  The  Whips  of  Time 

Hummerstone  admitted  it.  Indeed,  there  was  no 
denying  it. 

"  But,  of  course,"  he  said,  "  it  goes  without  saying 
that  I  must  have  done  something  different  from  you. 
Without  meaning  it,  perhaps,  you  omitted  or  added 
some  condition  which  existed  or  was  absent  in  your 
own  case.  On  the  face  of  it,  a  portion  of  the  same 
ground  coffee,  made  with  a  portion  of  the  same  water 
in  precisely  the  same  manner,  must  produce  an  infu- 
sion of  precisely  the  same  flavour.  On  the  face  of  it, 
it  must." 

"  On  the  face  of  it,  I  admit  that  it  must.  But  you 
see  there  is  always  something  behind  the  face,  the  im- 
material beyond  the  material,  the  incalculable  —  in  a 
word,  the  incomprehensible,  which  meets  us  at  all  turns. 
One  man  or  woman  is  able  to  make  plants  grow  and 
blossom,  while  in  the  hands  of  another  they  either  do 
not  thrive,  or  even  fail  and  die.  I  believe  each  one  of 
us  radiates  an  atmosphere,  an  aura,  call  it  what  you 
will,  and  that  this  all  the  while  exerts  a  subtle  potent 
influence  on  all  we  do  and  attempt.  It  determines  luck 
or  ill-luck,  makes  our  success  or  failure,  rouses  our 
neighbour's  affection  or  his  antipathy,  exerts  in  every 
way  an  enormous  influence  on  every  step  of  our  ca- 
reers." 

Hummerstone  spread  his  hands,  as  though  dismiss- 
ing a  subject  which  had  ceased  to  interest  him. 

"  At  all  events,"  he  said  in  a  bland  voice  which  was 
more  chilling  than  frigidity,  "  I  can  scarcely  say  I  feel 
any  very  deep  regret  if  I  seem  to  have  proved  that  my 
aura  is  not  conducive  to  making  coffee." 

Lowood,  sensitive,  enthusiastic,  neurotic,  winced 
before  the  bland  remark.  Two  men  in  talking  are 
forever  treading  upon  each  other's  toes.  Possibly  it 
does  them  no  harm.  Possibly  it  does  them  immense 
good.  Men  should  be  of  hardy  growth,  and  too  genial 
an  atmosphere  is  inimical  to  hardy  growth. 

The  fact  that  his  fellows  tread  upon  his  toes,  how- 


The  Experiment  5 

ever,  explains  the  preference  man  shows  for  the  society 
of  the  other  sex. 

Hummerstone  had  but  few  friends.  One  never 
knew  at  what  moment  he  might  not  turn  and  sneer. 
A  man  or  a  woman  who  sneers  is  one  with  bad  blood 
in  the  heart.  And  his  fellows  instinctively  shun  the 
man  or  woman  with  bad  blood  in  the  heart. 

Lowood,  however,  was  one  of  those  warm-natured 
enthusiasts  who  find  all  persons  more  or  less  agreeable, 
for  the  reason  that  the  genial  atmosphere  they  them- 
selves radiate  thaws  the  ice  and  rounds  the  angles  of 
all  who  come  within  its  influence. 

To  mollify  his  guest  he  now  went  to  a  cabinet,  and 
taking  out  an  unopened  box  of  cigars  he  broke  its  paper 
wrappings,  and  untied  it  with  the  hand  of  one  dealing 
with  a  precious  thing.  Having  opened  the  box  he 
extended  it  to  Hummerstone  with  a  propitiatory,  ami- 
able smile. 

"  Try  one.  They  were  given  to  me  by  Ganz,  the 
great  cigar  importer.  He's  a  patient  of  mine.  You'll 
find  them  good." 

"  Thanks."  Hummerstone  took  one.  "  What  a 
man  you  are  for  getting  things  given  to  you." 

Lowood  smiled. 

"  In  this  case  I  earned  it,"  he  said.  "  Ganz  has  a 
deuce  of  a  temper,  poor  old  chap !  Victim  of  his  own 
nicotine.  Gets  awful  dumps.  I  cheer  him  up  a  bit." 

The  table  having  now  been  cleared : 

"  What  shall  we  do?  "  Lowood  asked.     "  Cards?  " 

"  Afterwards,  perhaps.  Let's  talk  first.  I  want  to 
tell  you  about  something  —  an  experiment  I'm  going 
to  make." 

"  All  right.  Draw  up  to  the  fire.  The  cold  is 
arctic.  We've  got  everything  we  shall  want  for  a 
good  long  evening  —  coals,  whisky,  two  syphons, 
glasses.  It's  only  a  quarter  to  nine.  We've  got  some 
good  clear  hours  before  us.  Fire  away.  What  sort 
of  experiment?  " 


6  The  Whips  of  Time 

"  A  psychological  experiment.  Listen.  You  know 
I  am  doing  locum  at  old  Thistlewaite's  little  private 
hospital  in  Harley  Street.  Well,  we've  got  a  run  of 
cases  just  now.  And  two  in  particular  have  taken  my 
fancy.  I  can't  get  them  out  of  my  head." 

"  All  right.    Tell  me  about  it." 

Hummerstone  was  silent  for  some  minutes.  Per- 
haps a  shade  of  constraint  gathered  on  his  face. 

"  It  is  good,"  he  said,  "  old  Ganz's  cigar !  " 

Then  he  resumed  :  "  You've  been  reading  the  Sarah 
Munnings  murder  case,  no  doubt.  Woman  who  poi- 
soned no  end  of  persons,  just  for  sheer  devilry. 
Trained  as  a  nurse,  in  order  to  have  a  free  hand  and 
no  prejudice.  I  should  think  she  must,  on  her  own 
confession,  have  poisoned  at  least  twenty  persons.  She 
was  found  guilty  and  sentenced  to  death.  But  on  her 
way  back  to  prison  she  was  taken  so  dangerously  ill 
that  the  prison-van  was  stopped  at  the  nearest  doctor's, 
which  chanced  to  be  old  Thistlewaite's.  He  saw  that 
she  was  at  her  last  gasp.  He  had  her  taken  into  his 
nursing-home,  next  door,  where  she's  been  ever  since 
—  too  ill  to  be  moved.  Because  of  her  condition,  the 
English  law  reprieves  her  from  death,  and  commutes 
the  sentence  to  a  life-imprisonment." 

"  I  know.  I  wondered  at  the  time  whether  it  would 
not  have  been  more  humane  to  put  the  poor  wretch 
into  a  lethal  chamber  and  have  done  with  her  and  her 
line.  What  can  the  child  of  such  a  degenerate  be  ?  " 

"  There  you  are  again  with  your  absurd  notions  of 
heredity.  In  reality  she  is  rather  a  handsome  person." 

"Well,"  Lowood  said,  "what  more  about  it?" 

Hummerstone  continued  that  the  woman  was  still 
dangerously  ill.  To  move  her  would  mean  death.  She 
had  been  permitted  to  remain  where  she  was,  in  This- 
tlewaite's private  nursing-home,  where  she  was  occu- 
pying a  small  room  in  the  basement. 

"  Now  I  —  "  He  paused.  He  threw  one  glance  of 
interrogation  at  Lowood. 


The  Experiment  7 

Then :  "  I,"  he  went  on  in  his  cold,  hard  voice, 
"  intend  to  try  an  experiment.  At  all  events,  in  one 
case,  I'll  show  your  theories  of  heredity  to  be  without 
foundation.  The  whole  thing,  as  I  tell  you,  is  the 
result  of  environment  and  early  impressions.  Now, 
in  the  room  above  that  of  the  murderess  is  a  well-born, 
highly-cultured  young  woman  of  good  county  family, 
the  people,  in  fact,  of  a  place  called  Scrope-Denton, 
in  Gloucestershire.  She,  too,  is  an  expectant  mother. 
The  events  are  likely  to  occur  on  the  same  day,  that 
is  to-day  or  to-morrow.  When  they  do  I  have  ar- 
ranged a  little  series  of  manoeuvres  by  which  I  shall 
send  the  nurses  of  the  two  patients  for  a  minute  from 
the  two  rooms.  In  that  minute  I  shall  change  the 
infants,  substituting  the  murderess'  boy  for  the  boy 
of  the  woman  of  family.  And,  my  dear  chap,"  he 
concluded  complacently,  "  I  am,  as  I  tell  you,  willing 
to  wager  anything  you  like  that  the  murderess'  boy, 
because  of  the  surroundings  and  advantages  for  which 
he  will  have  me  to  thank,  will  grow  up  to  be  as  esti- 
mable and  as  well-conducted  a  person  as  the  rest  of 
his  class.  While  the  son  of  the  well-bred,  highly- 
cultured  lady  will,  from  his  early  association  and  train- 
ing, as  inevitably  go  to  swell  the  ranks  of  the  sub- 
merged tenth,  as  ducks  take  to  water." 

Lowood  had  got  slowly  to  his  feet  and  now  stood 
observing  his  friend  from  the  other  side  of  the  fire- 
place. 

"  Of  course,"  he  said  quietly,  "  you  are  only  joking." 

"Joking!"  Hummerstone  retorted,  "I  assure  you 
I  have  never  in  my  life  been  more  serious.  The  thing 
is  an  interesting  scientific  experiment.  I  shall  follow 
it  up  with  the  keenest  attention,  notebook  in  hand.  Of 
course  I  know  precisely  how  it  will  turn  out.  It  offers 
no  exciting  possibilities  to  me.  I  am  as  strongly  con- 
vinced that  the  doctrine  of  heredity  is  rubbish  as  you 
are  convinced  that  it  is  a  proven  truth.  At  all  events 
I  will  show  you  one  case  to  discredit  your  beliefs.  Un- 


8  The  Whips  of  Time 

less  this  boy  should  happen  to  be  a  freak,  and  turn  out 
a  criminal  in  spite  of  his  surroundings." 

"  You  seem  to  be  very  certain  about  the  sex,"  Lo- 
wood  said  quickly.  A  suspicion  flashed  across  him, 
that  even  while  he  was  exerting  his  shocked  wits  to 
gather  whether  Hummerstone  was  truly  serious,  the 
appalling  experiment  had  been  already  made,  that  the 
son  of  the  murderess  had  already  been  substituted  for 
that  of  the  blameless  lady. 

"  Oh,  no  doubt  about  the  sex,"  Hummerstone  as- 
sented quietly,  still  further  confirming  the  suspicion. 

Then  Lowood,  having  summoned  his  shocked  wits, 
expressed  himself : 

"  Hummerstone,  if  I  believed  you  in  earnest  I  should 
say  you  were  the  most  consummate,  unscrupulous  ras- 
cal I  had  ever  met.  To  rob  a  decent  woman  —  a  lady, 
a  lady  entrusted  to  your  professional  care  —  to  rob 
her  of  her  child,  and  to  substitute  for  it  the  child  of 
this  unspeakable  person,  to  be  reared  and  cared  for  as 
her  own !  To  expose  her  to  the  pain,  in  all  probability 
to  the  shame,  which  the  inherited  instincts  of  the  mur- 
deress' child  must  sooner  or  later  bring  upon  her! 
To  —  "  He  paused,  and  controlling  his  voice,  which 
had  grown  high  and  impetuous,  he  began  again 
quietly : 

"  Look  here,  old  man,  you're  not  really  serious,  are 
you  ?  What  you  mean  is  that  the  experiment  would  be 
interesting.  That  I  am  willing  to  grant.  It  would  be 
if  we  were  dealing  with  pawns  on  a  chess-board,  with 
rose-grafting,  or  with  bee-breeding,  even  perhaps  with 
your  favourite  rabbits  and  guinea-pigs.  But  when  you 
come  to  try  such  experiments  on  human  beings,  to 
exploit  maternity  and  a  mother's  rights  in  her  child, 
just  for  vulgar  curiosity  —  " 

"  Vulgar  curiosity  be  hanged !  "  Hummerstone  in- 
terrupted roughly.  "  It's  a  scientific  experiment,  I 
tell  you.  It  is  for  the  advancement  of  science.  Hang 
it,  man!  give  me  credit  for  being  in  earnest.  How 


The  Experiment  9 

else,  except  by  experimental  proof,  can  these  ridiculous 
theories  be  disproved?  " 

"  A  single  case  would  not  disprove  them.  You 
would  need  some  thousands  of  cases,  at  the  very  least, 
before  you  would  even  throw  a  doubt  on  a  fact  so  well 
established." 

"  Well,  we  can  have  a  thousand  cases  —  tens  of 
thousands  of  cases.  It  is  a  mere  matter  of  time.  We 
must  make  a  beginning.  It  is  all  this  rubbishy  senti- 
ment that  is  the  stumbling-block  in  the  way  of  prog- 
ress. And  one  would  seldom  find  a  case  so  essentially 
suited  to  experiment  as  is  this  one.  Here,  on  the  one 
hand,  is  a  mere  monster  of  callous  crime,  as  this  mur- 
deress-mother plainly  is.  On  the  other  is  a  woman  — 
I  have  carefully  ascertained  this  —  who  is  a  person  of 
singular  dignity,  and  amiability  of  character,  healthy, 
wealthy,  cultured,  her  husband  a  man  of  fine  old 
county-stock  and  a  large  landowner.  My  dear  Lo- 
wood,  you  might  wait  a  century  before  you  would  find 
two  such  cases,  from,  as  it  were,  the  ends  of  the  phys- 
ical poles.  And  where  one  finds  them  brought  together 
under  the  same  roof  —  Why !  it  would  be  an  absolute 
crime  against  science  to  allow  some  fantastic  scruple 
to  bar  so  interesting  an  experiment." 

"  Such  an  experiment  would  be  only  justifiable  if 
the  parents  of  the  children  were  aware  of  and  con- 
sented to  it." 

Hummerstone  scoffed. 

"  If  they  were  aware  of  it  the  thing  would  have  no 
value.  Unconsciously,  even  if  not  consciously,  they 
would  be  all  the  while  subjecting  the  child  to  special 
treatment,  withholding  this,  and  supplying  that,  with 
a  notion  of  counteracting  what  they  believed  to  be 
hereditary  tendencies.  In  my  case,  both  parents  being 
absolutely  ignorant  of  the  circumstances,  the  two  boys 
will  be  brought  up  normally  and  without  any  special 
precautions.  The  one  at  least.  The  other  won't  be 
overburdened  by  bringing  up.  But  I  shan't  concern 


10  The  Whips  of  Time 

myself  with  him.  He  will  naturally  drift  out  of  ob- 
servation, will  become  a  scallywag,  a  thief  or  a  bur- 
glar, simply  because,  from  his  earliest  days,  he  will  be 
associated  with  such  persons.  On  the  other,  I  shall 
keep  an  eye  of  the  keenest  interest.  And,  as  I  tell  you, 
no  doubt  before  I  die  I  shall  see  the  murderess'  son 
a  churchwarden,  and  a  justice  of  the  peace,  perhaps  a 
noted  and  a  knighted  philanthropist." 

"  Are  you  thinking  of  choosing  some  dramatic 
moment  in  his  career  for  divulging  to  him  the  secret 
of  his  true  parentage?"  Lowood  inquired  satirically. 

"  No,"  Hummerstone  retorted.  "  That  would  be 
more  in  your  line  than  in  mine.  And  there  would  be 
no  object  in  it.  I  have  a  scientific  bent,  and  only  the 
scientific  aspect  of  the  question  interests  me.  From 
the  other  standpoint  he'll  be  a  jolly  lucky  beggar,  and 
ought  to  be  profoundly  grateful  to  me." 

"  Yes,  but  the  good  mother,  and  the  good  mother's 
real  son  ?  " 

"  Oh !  as  for  her,"  Hummerstone  returned,  "  since 
she  will  never  know  them,  the  circumstances  will  not 
affect  her  a  jot  one  way  or  the  other.  Her  maternal 
instincts  will  be  satisfied  by  having  a  child  she  believes 
to  be  her  own.  As  I  say,  there's  more  rubbish  talked 
to  the  square  inch  than  there  are  fish  in  the  sea.  From 
the  day  of  his  birth  to  the  day  of  her  death,  if  he  lives 
so  long,  she  will  never  have  the  faintest  suspicion  that 
he  is  not  her  son.  Nor  will  she  be  a  jot  less  fond  of 
him  than  if  he  were."  He  laughed  a  confident,  com- 
placent laugh. 

"  As  to  the  other  boy,"  he  resumed,  "  according  to 
your  theories  of  heredity,  the  mere  accident  of  his 
environment  will  be  of  no  significance.  The  child  of 
superior  cultivated  persons,  he  will,  without  difficulty, 
rise  superior  to  his  surroundings,  and  will  eventually, 
by  his  own  efforts  and  inherited  instincts,  replace  him- 
self upon  the  social  level  from  which  he  will  have  been 
temporarily  removed." 


The  Experiment  11 

"  I  wouldn't  go  so  far  as  that,"  Lowood  objected. 
"  When  you've  got  the  whole  weight  of  Society  press- 
ing you  down  into  the  gutter,  it  is  no  such  easy  task 
to  rise  to  the  surface." 

"  No,"  Hummerstone  retorted  cynically,  "  that  is 
precisely  what  I  say.  But  started  floating  comfort- 
ably on  the  surface  —  in  a  word,  given  a  favouring 
environment,  and  the  murderess'  son  will  hold  his  own 
with  the  duke's." 

Lowood  shook  his  head. 

"  Facilis  descensus !  The  murderess'  son  will  find 
it  far  easier  to  revert  to  his  mother's  moral  and  social 
level  than  will  the  other  boy,  no  matter  what  his  ca- 
pacities, find  it  to  rise  to  that  from  which  he  sprang." 

"  Well,"  said  Hummerstone,  calmly,  "  that  is  what 
I  am  putting  to  the  test.  Admit  that  it  will  be  an  inter- 
esting experiment." 

Lowood  changed  his  philosophic  tone. 

"  Look  here,  Hummerstone,"  he  urged,  "  you  don't 
really  mean  to  do  this  thing." 

"  Look  here,  Lowood,  I  really  mean  to  do  it.  As  I 
say,  I  was  never  more  serious  in  my  life." 

Lowood  flushed  to  the  roots  of  his  hair.  Sensitive 
and  sympathetic,  it  was  an  effort  to  him  to  take  up  the 
attitude  to  which  his  conscience  now  moved  him. 

"  Then,  why  the  deuce,"  he  broke  out,  "  did  you 
make  me  your  confidant?  I  tell  you  I  don't  stand  by 
and  see  it  done.  It's  — •  it's  devilish.  Do  you  mean 
to  say  you  can't  see  it  yourself?  Hummerstone,  for 
Heaven's  sake  drop  it.  I've  told  you  before,  you've 
got  a  blind  spot  where  your  conscience  ought  to  be. 
With  you,  what  you  call  science  is  a  fetish.  Every- 
thing must  be  sacrificed  to  it.  But,  for  Heaven's  sake, 
stop  short  of  this.  This  is  devilish." 

Hummerstone  took  his  cigar  from  between  his  lips 
and  laughed. 

"  Lowood !  you're  nothing  but  an  old  woman.  You 
ought  to  have  been  a  parson,  not  a  man  of  science." 


12  The  Whips  of  Time 

"  Hummerstone,"  Lowood  appealed  excitedly, 
"  we're  old  friends,  you  and  I.  I  don't  want  to  do 
anything  unfriendly,  but  if  you  persist  I  swear  I'll 
warn  somebody;  I'll  get  a  magistrate's  warrant  or 
something  to  restrain  you.  I  won't  stand  by  and  see 
such  a  thing  done.  I  swear  I  won't." 

Hummerstone  again  took  out  his  cigar,  looked 
across  at  his  excited  host  and  once  more  laughed. 

He  looked  at  him  again,  however,  and  did  not  laugh. 
He  could  see  that  Lowood  was  in  dangerous  earnest, 
his  dark  eyes  burning  in  his  sallow  face,  his  hands 
working  nervously. 

He  remained  silent  for  a  minute.  Then  he  said  in 
a  bantering  tone : 

"  Oh,  all  right !  Don't  excite  yourself.  Your  ser- 
mon has  converted  me.  Your  light  has  found  my 
blind  spot.  I  see  the  error  of  my  ways.  I'll  refrain 
from  my  experiment.  The  murderess'  son  shall  grow 
up  in  his  normal  murderous  environment.  The  esti- 
mable lady's  son  shall  grow  up  in  his  normal  estimable 
surroundings.  Everything  shall  be  as  Providence  or- 
dained. And  let  us  live  happy  ever  after.  All  the  same, 
my  friend,  you're  a  fool.  And  owing  to  your  folly 
science  will  have  lost  an  interesting  object  lesson." 

Lowood  was  only  half  convinced.  For,  despite  the 
other's  bantering  retraction,  his  cold  eyes  showed  a 
curious  and  repulsive  eagerness,  but,  ever  amiable  and 
optimistic,  he  hoped  that  he  would  keep  his  promise. 

He  moved  impulsively  over  to  him  with  a  hand 
outstretched. 

"  Thanks,  for  promising.  Perhaps  it  seemed  cur- 
rish of  me  to  threaten.  But  really,  Hummerstone,  seen 
from  a  human,  instead  of  from  a  coldly  experimental 
standpoint,  the  thing  would  be  nothing  less  than  fiend- 
ish." 

"  Oh,  all  right !  "  the  other  said  roughly.  "  No  need 
for  sentiment!  And  I'm  not  feeling  particularly  cor- 


The  Experiment  13 

dial  to  you.  When  it  comes  to  threats  of  magistrates 
and  that  sort  of  business  —  " 

The  door  opened.  Rose,  the  parlour-maid  who 
attended  upon  the  three  young,  struggling  medicoes 
waiting  for  patients  behind  the  door  in  Queen  Anne 
Street,  appeared. 

"  Dr.  Hummerstone's  wanted  at  Harley  Street,"  she 
announced  with  the  calmness  which  some  years  of 
familiarity  with  such  summons  had  bred  in  her. 
"  Somebody  has  come  for  him  in  a  cab.  And  he'll 
please  to  go  at  once." 


CHAPTER    I 

TWENTY  -  THREE  YEARS    LATER 

ON  a  windy  morning  in  September,  twenty-three  years 
later,  Lowood,  now  a  gaunt  and  iron-grey  man,  closed 
the  door  of  the  house  in  Queen  Anne  Street  for  ever 
behind  him. 

The  door  was  no  longer  armoured  with  brass  plates. 
Now  it  bore  no  single  one  even,  only  a  square  patch, 
which  had  the  appearance  of  a  gash  upon  its  otherwise 
smooth  face,  showed  where  Lowood's  own  plate  had 
long  reigned  in  dignified  solitude  and  whence  it  had 
been  recently  removed. 

For  Lowood  had  prospered  better  than  had  those 
medical  fellows  of  his  who  had  once  shared  the  house 
with  him,  competing  in  friendly  rivalry  for  the  goal 
of  a  West-End  practice.  One  after  the  other,  the  two 
fellows  had  dropped  away,  one  altogether  from  the 
medical  ranks,  the  other  gravitating  to  the  level  of  a 
Bloomsbury  dispensary.  And  Lowood  had  remained 
alone,  his  growing  practice  enabling  him  to  retain  the 
whole  house,  with  the  exception  of  an  upper  floor 
which  he  let  for  a  rent  which  paid  his  taxes. 

For  twenty-eight  years  he  had  been  in  practice. 
During  the  first  half  of  these  carking  poverty  and 
anxious  cares  had  been  his  bedfellows,  while  for  the 
second  half  he  had  been  so  busy  and  hard-worked  that 
he  and  his  bed  had  but  the  barest  sleeping  acquaintance. 

Yet  through  all  the  monotonous  grind  of  it,  the 
sombre  procession  of  human  wrecks  which  drifted 
daily  through  his  consulting-rooms,  leaving  their  sal- 
vage-dues of  guineas,  he  had  retained  one  hope. 


Twenty-three  Years  Later  15 

"  When  I  shall  have  saved  enough  to  bring  me  in  a 
decent  little  income,"  he  had  told  himself,  "  I  will  cast 
my  professional  slough,  will  leave  all  this  behind  me; 
will  live  for  a  few  years  at  all  events  before  I  die." 

Contemplative,  sentimental,  fond  of  Nature,  he  re- 
garded his  life  with  its  monotonous  routine,  its  prison 
of  four  walls  and  four-and- forty  cramping  conven- 
tions, as  a  penal  servitude  to  which,  for  no  fault  of  his 
own,  so  far  as  he  could  see,  save  and  except  for  his 
natural  desire  not  to  starve,  a  mistaken  civilisation  had 
condemned  him. 

For  three  weeks  in  every  year  he  had  allowed  him- 
self a  respite.  On  an  August  morning  when  the  great 
City  was  groaning  beneath  the  sultry  sun  and  the  stag- 
nant, malodorous  exhalations  of  its  sanitary  and  moral 
evils,  he  would,  in  a  mood  of  savage  ecstasy,  don  an 
old  pair  of  shoes,  and  a  loose  coat,  and  steal  from  his 
house  like  a  thief  in  the  dawn,  to  trudge  his  way  into 
the  country.  No  train  for  him,  no  tram,  no  motor ! 

Even  his  feet  were  too  quick  for  his  mind's  mood, 
and  when  he  had  walked  himself  footsore,  as  a  man 
may  do  easily  who  for  a  year  has  only  walked  the  dis- 
tance from  one  professional  duty  to  the  next,  he  would 
sleep  for  a  night  at  some  little  wayside  inn,  or  at  a 
farmhouse,  or  even  in  a  barn,  and  not  until  the  follow- 
ing morning  would  he  take  train  for  some  spot  as  far 
removed  from  London  as  trams  go. 

Then  for  the  space  of  three  delirious  weeks  he  would 
remember  —  not  to  die  —  but  to  live,  and  would  feast 
his  fancy  on  a  promise  he  had  made  to  himself  that  one 
day  he  would  so  live  every  day  in  the  year,  and  ^ ,  cr 
go  back  to  his  professional  servitude. 

And  this  windy  morning  of  September  was  the 
morning  of  his  first  day  of  liberty  —  of  his  first  day  of 
life,  as  he  regarded  it.  He  drew  to  the  door  behind 
him,  the  door  with  its  oblong  wound  where  his  brass 
plate  had  been,  with  unnecessary  emphasis.  It  was 
the  full  stop  to  his  story  of  closing  it  behind  him.  But 


16  The  Whips  of  Time 

the  energy  was  not  without  a  certain  nervous  senti- 
ment, which  in  a  woman  would  have  shown  itself  in 
tears. 

A  moment  later  the  sentiment  had  passed.  He  knew 
that  he  was  leaving  behind  him  nothing  regrettable, 
nothing  save  habit,  to  which,  as  to  an  old  coat,  famil- 
iarity had  lent  a  sort  of  value.  He  walked  down  the 
steps  and  crossed  the  pavement  to  the  cab  awaiting  him 
with  an  odd  shivery  sense  of  being  in  his  shirt  sleeves. 
By  the  time  he  had  reached  the  station,  however,  and 
had  taken  his  place  in  the  train,  reaction  came.  The 
slight  chill  attendant  on  discarding  a  long-worn  habit 
was  succeeded  by  the  glow  of  embarking  on  a  new 
career. 

He  was  even  excited.  His  parchment  face  was  lit 
as  though  by  a  lamp  behind  it.  His  eyes,  still  dark 
and  keen  and  strangely  young  in  his  lined  and  sallow 
face,  sparkled  with  eagerness. 

He  looked  like  a  man  who  had  not  only  thrown  off 
a  burden  but  like  one  who  had  some  new  alluring  goal 
in  view. 

And  this  he  had.  Otherwise  it  is  probable  he  could 
not  so  lightly  have  doffed  the  life  habits  of  nearly 
thirty  years'  standing. 

A  one-ideaed  man,  his  nature  was  to  throw  himself 
heart  and  soul  into  some  or  another  project  or  specu- 
lation and  never  to  lose  grip  of  it  until  he  had  wrested 
from  it  all  it  had  to  yield. 

Then  only  he  would  toss  it  aside  with  a  sigh  and 
would  find  life  a  boredom  until  some  other  project  or 
idea  took  possession  of  him. 

On  the  day  on  which  he  had  found  himself  the 
owner  of  a  round  sum,  of  which  the  interest  would 
enable  him  to  live  decently,  in  his  quick,  impulsive 
fashion  he  had  taken  steps  to  dispose  of  his  practice 
and  had  written  off  to  half  a  dozen  house  and  estate 
agents  for  lists  of  all  the  houses  to  be  let  in  the  United 
Kingdom. 


Twenty -three  Years  Later  17 

He  had  not  read  two  before,  in  the  same  impulsive 
fashion,  he  had  made  his  plans. 

For  at  the  top  of  the  third  page  of  the  second  list 
his  eye  was  arrested  by  the  word  "  Scrope-Denton." 

"  Now,  where  in  the  world  have  I  heard  of  Scrope- 
Denton?"  he  reflected  with  a  puzzled  frown.  The 
next  moment  memory  flooded  his  brain.  He  felt  the 
bone-searching  cold  of  a  night  he  had  described  as 
arctic;  he  saw  Hummerstone  seated  on  the  other  side 
of  his  fireplace,  in  a  chair  he  had  since  exchanged  for 
one  more  handsome  if  less  comfortable.  He  smelt  oid 
Ganz's  cigar.  He  recalled  the  flat-cold  eye,  heard  the 
bland,  cold  voice  of  his  friend,  in  its  preamble, 
"  You've  been  reading  the  Sarah  Munnings  murder 
case,"  and  so  forth,  until  the  whole  project  had  been 
unfolded.  He  recalled  his  own  shocked  emotions,  his 
horror  at  that  notion  of  foisting  the  murderess'  child 
upon  the  innocent,  high-bred  mother.  He  recalled  his 
friend's  bantering  retraction  under  stress  of  his  own 
threats.  He  remembered  the  summons  which  had 
abruptly  ended  their  talk.  He  remembered  how  he 
had  lain  awake  till  morning,  possessed  by  a  dread  lest 
in  spite  of  everything  Hummerstone  would  do,  or  had 
already  done,  the  appalling  thing  he  contemplated. 

For  two  whole  years  he  had  been  unable  to  wring 
a  word  from  him  upon  the  subject.  He  had  merely 
laughed  and  changed  it. 

Till  one  evening,  when  further  taxed,  he  had  ad- 
mitted, with  scarcely  a  tremor  of  his  cold,  heavy  eye- 
lids, with  no  shade  of  remorse  in  his  chill,  bland  voice, 
obviously  without  a  sense  that  there  was  anything  of 
which  to  be  ashamed,  that  he  had  indeed  carried  out 
his  intention. 

"  I  have  made  a  note  of  it  for  future  reference,"  he 
said ;  "  for  the  present  I  have  dropped  it  from  my  mind. 
The  experiment  is  not  ripe.  Character  is  not  estab- 
lished until  the  subject  is  well  into  the  teens.  And  my 
experiment  is  at  present  a  two-year-old." 


18  The  Whips  of  Time 

Then  he  had  spoken  of  other  things  and  had  shortly 
afterwards  taken  his  leave. 

There  had  been  a  third  man  present,  a  lawyer  and 
an  old  friend  of  Lowood's.  So  soon  as  Hummerstone 
had  gone  he  exclaimed : 

"  Hummerstone  had  better  look  out  as  to  what  he 
is  doing.  The  law  doesn't  let  chaps  play  fast  and  loose 
that  way  with  other  people's  youngsters.  Beastly 
bounder  thing  to  do,  anyway." 

Lowood  had  been  for  a  while  overcome.  It  affected 
him  profoundly.  The  thing  seemed  so  dastardly,  a 
violation  of  all  the  ethics  of  professional  and  human 
honour,  this  callous  defrauding  a  mother  of  her  child, 
substituting  for  it  the  child  of  a  monster  of  crime. 

Who  could  say  what  horrible  happenings  the  fraud 
might  not  bring  about?  The  environment  into  which 
he  would  have  been  naturally  born  would  no  doubt 
have  served  for  a  restraining  force  and  safeguard  for 
the  criminal  child.  In  the  position  of  greater  respon- 
sibility and  freer  action  which  had  been  artificially 
thrust  upon  him,  he  would  lack  such  restraining  influ- 
ence upon  his  inherited  instincts,  would  have  wider 
scope  for  their  indulgence. 

It  made  him  physically  sick  to  think  about  it.  He 
conceived  on  the  spot  a  violent  and  ineradicable  aver- 
sion to  his  old  chum.  Before  Sibley  and  he  parted 
that  evening  he  said : 

"  Look  here,  Sibley,  I  can't  get  this  admission  of 
Hummerstone's  out  of  my  head.  I  suppose  we  can  do 
nothing  now.  One  can't  very  well  inform  upon  him. 
Besides,  we  have  no  evidence.  I  don't  even  know  the 
mother's  name,  the  date  of  the  birth,  or,  in  fact,  any- 
thing. I  have  only  Hummerstone's  word.  And  no 
doubt  he  would  say  the  whole  thing  had  been  a  hoax. 
But  I  should  feel  easier  if,  before  you  go,  you  would 
draw  up  a  legal  statement  of  the  case,  setting  forth  his 
admission.  Let  us  both  sign  it.  It  might  be  of  service 
one  day,  though  Heaven  only  knows  how." 


Twenty -three  Years  Later  Id 

This  Sibley  had  done.     But: 

"  It  will  never  be  the  least  use,"  he  had  said.  "  Best 
to  leave  bad  alone  instead  of  making  it  worse.  And  of 
course  Hummerstone  would  deny  the  whole  thing,  and 
would  say  he  had  only  been  hoaxing  us." 

The  document  had  been  drawn  up  and  signed.  Lo- 
wood,  recalling  the  facts,  knew  that  the  statement  was 
safe  at  the  bottom  of  his  strong  box. 

But  the  whole  series  of  events  had  escaped  his 
memory  until  the  word  "  Scrope-Denton  "  at  the  top 
of  a  page  of  the  house-agent's  list  had  started  these 
cinematograph  recollections. 

Scrope-Denton  was,  of  course,  the  place  which 
Hummerstone  had  named  as  being  the  home  of  the 
mother  upon  whom  the  murderess'  boy  had  been 
foisted. 

Immediately  his  mind  took  fire.  Scrope-Denton 
should  be  his  first  halting-place.  It  would  be  interest- 
ing to  follow  up  Hummerstone's  experiment.  The 
subject  had  never  again  been  opened,  and  the  men  had 
drifted  apart.  Whether  or  not  Hummerstone  had  kept 
in  view  the  victim  of  his  scientific  curiosity  he  had  no 
means  of  knowing.  But  he  himself  was  irresistibly 
impelled  to  learn  the  sequel. 

Twenty-three  years  had  passed.  If  the  child  of  the 
murderess  were  still  living,  Scrope-Denton  would 
doubtless  have  interesting  psychological  developments 
to  show. 

It  was  the  anticipation  of  witnessing  these  which 
filled  his  mind  and  lighted  his  eyes  that  morning  of  his 
journey.  Oddly  enough  he  had  never  been  able  to  free 
himself  of  a  conscience-stricken  sense  of  complicity  in 
the  affair. 

Whatsoever  might  have  happened  or  might  be  to 
happen,  could  he  consider  himself  wholly  blameless? 

Was  there  not  something  he  might  have  done  to 
redress  that  terrible  wrong  which  had  been  inflicted  ? 


CHAPTER    II 

HOMER    COTTAGE 

As  he  travelled  he  experienced  a  momentary  setback 
to  his  speculations.  He  remembered  that  he  did  not 
know  the  name  of  the  persons  upon  whom  had  been 
thrust  that  cuckoo-offspring. 

Hummerstone  had  told  him  no  more  than  the  name 
of  the  little  country  town  in  which  they  lived,  with  the 
qualification : 

"  They  are  the  people  of  the  place." 

The  setback  lasted  no  longer  than  minutes.  Then 
he  reflected  that  in  such  a  country  town  as  his  flying 
visit  had  shown  Scrope-Denton  to  be  he  would  have  no 
difficulty  in  identifying  "  the  people  of  the  place." 

He  had  run  down  one  early  Sunday  morning,  re- 
turning the  same  evening,  having  allowed  himself  an 
hour  in  which  to  inspect  the  only  available  domicile 
upon  the  house-agent's  list.  He  asked  no  better.  If, 
as  he  was  not  able  to  doubt,  it  possessed  a  structure 
of  bricks  and  mortar,  Homer  Cottage  had  the  grace 
to  conceal  the  fact  within  an  artistic  tangle  of  fine  old 
burnished  ivy-leaves,  which  even  muffled  the  two  tall 
chimney-stacks  as  though  they  had  been  long  sore- 
throats. 

It  was  set  in  a  prim  old  garden  with  a  narrow  box- 
bordered  gravelled  walk  up  to  the  porch.  And  the 
porch  appeared  as  a  mere  clump  of  fragrant  honey- 
suckle obligingly  parting  in  the  middle  to  give  entrance 
to  the  cottage.  On  either  side  of  the  walk,  set  in 
smooth  lawns,  stood  a  peacock  on  a  pedestal,  clipped 
somewhat  askew  in  yew,  spreading  a  lopsided  tail  in 


Homer  Cottage  21 

which,  behold!  there  were  no  jewel-eyes  to  justify  the 
vanity. 

All  this,  seen  in  the  mellow  light  of  a  softly-clouded 
July  afternoon,  had  made  such  a  charming  picture  for 
his  town- jaded  senses  that  he  had  mentally  signed  his 
lease  of  tenancy  before  he  had  opened  the  tall  white 
gate  admitting  to  it. 

But  on  this  later  windy  autumn  afternoon,  with  drab 
leaves  everywhere,  taking  to  their  timid  heels  and 
scuttling  with  scared  aimlessness  from  one  place  of 
refuge  to  another,  as  though,  having  set  the  fashion  of 
falling,  they  were  suddenly  abashed  to  find  themselves 
in  a  minority  upon  the  ground,  Homer  Cottage  looked, 
perhaps,  less  inviting  than  it  had  done  on  his  first  visit. 
The  white  gate  had  a  rusty  latch  which  lifted  grudg- 
ingly, a  rusty  hinge  on  which  it  opened  stiffly. 

The  blinds  of  the  windows  were  drawn  like  eyelids 
upon  unwelcoming  eyes.  As  he  walked  up  the  straight 
path,  so  clean-swept  that  it  seemed  to  have  been 
scoured,  the  askew  peacocks  looked  askance  at  him, 
while  the  honeysuckle  porch  was  a  mere  shroud  of 
shrivelled  leaves. 

The  dark-tiled  hall  bore  the  aspect  of  a  child  whose 
temper  had  been  tried  by  having  his  face  too  vigor- 
ously scrubbed.  Under  its  soap-sud  shine  lurked  sulky 
recollections. 

In  the  middle  of  the  tiled  floor  stood  the  two  little 
elderly  spinsters,  Miss  and  Miss  Ursula  Epithite, 
whose  tenant  he  was  about  to  be. 

He  had  met  and  had  found  them  quaintly  amusing, 
on  his  former  visit.  Now  they  stood  waiting  to  greet 
him,  their  fresh-coloured  faces  hard  and  unsmiling, 
their  eyes  like  flint  stones. 

"  Oh !  good-evening,  Dr.  Lowood,"  the  one  he  had 
taken  to  be  the  elder,  but  who  was  in  truth  the  younger, 
addressed  him.  "  I  trust  you  have  had  a  pleasant 
journey." 

There  was  such  a  sense  of  chill  and  unease  about  the 


22  The  Whips  of  Time 

house  that  Lowood,  feeling  in  his  amiable  fashion  the 
necessity  of  some  agreeable  element,  smiled  and  replied 
that  his  journey  had  been  all  one  could  have  wished. 
He  extended  a  cordial  hand.  But  for  some  reason  he 
was  unable  to  divine,  the  hand  was  ignored. 

The  two  old  fresh-coloured  faces  remained  stormily 
upturned  to  his  tall  height,  the  two  pairs  of  flinty  eyes 
held  his  like  bayonet-points. 

"  We  apologise,  doctor,"  Miss  Ursula  the  younger, 
who  assumed  the  prerogative  of  the  elder,  resumed 
with  chill  formality,  "  we  apologise  for  trespassing  in 
your  hall,  but  there  is  something  I  feel  it  my  duty  to 
explain  to  you  and  I  did  not  feel  justified  in  permitting 
my  sister,  who  is  not  strong,  to  stand  while  I  explain  it 
in  the  draught  of  the  garden." 

"  But,  my  dear  madam,"  Lowood  said  genially,  feel- 
ing rather  mystified  by  her  demeanour,  "  pray  do  not 
apologise.  And  certainly  do  not  on  any  account  stand 
in  the  draught  of  the  garden,  nor  talk  about  trespass. 
You  are  in  your  own  house." 

"  Pardon  me,"  Miss  Ursula  objected  stiffly,  "  the 
house  is  no  longer  ours.  Your  —  " 

"  Your  legal  tenancy  began  at  twelve  o'clock  to-day," 
Miss  Epithite  shrilled  in  a  voice  which  was  a  bowdler- 
ised  edition  of  her  sister's  more  severe  one. 

Miss  Ursula  turned  upon  her  irritably. 

"  Pray,  Charlotte,"  she  said,  "  leave  me  to  speak  to 
Dr.  Lowood.  You  know  I  can  never  bear  interrup- 
tions. They  confuse  me.  Besides,  it  takes  longer  for 
two  people  to  explain  a  thing  than  it  does  for  one. 
And  I  will  not  allow  you  to  expose  your  neuralgia  to 
the  draught  from  that  window  longer  than  is  abso- 
lutely necessary.  You  know  there  is  always  a  slight 
draught  from  that  window." 

Lowood  was  a  man  of  tact.  His  professional  ex- 
perience had  taught  him  many  things.  He  began  to 
have  an  inkling  of  the  meaning  of  his  extraordinary 
reception. 


Homer  Cottage  23 

He  put  out  a  hand  to  open  the  door  nearest  to  him. 
It  was  the  right  one.  It  had  an  air  of  preparation. 
There  were  vases  of  flowers  on  the  table.  A  fire 
burned  upon  the  hearth. 

"  But,"  he  said  genially,  "  I  cannot  permit  Miss  — 
Miss  Charlotte  - 

"  Miss  Epithite,"  she  corrected  grimly,  with  an  in- 
jured glance  at  the  sister  who  had  usurped  her  pre- 
rogative. 

"  I  cannot  permit  Miss  Epithite,"  he  began  again, 
"  to  remain  another  moment  in  the  draught  —  if 
draught  there  be."  Both  ladies  turned  upon  him  acri- 
moniously. Both  said  together,  "  There  has  always 
been  a  draught.  The  frame  does  not  fit  properly." 

Then  Miss  Ursula  turned  upon  Miss  Epithite. 
"  Pray,  Charlotte,"  she  enjoined,  "  do  not  interrupt 
me.  You  know  interruptions  confuse  me." 

Lowood  threw  the  door  wide.  "  Both  of  you, 
please,  come  into  this  room,  and,  while  we  talk,  sit 
beside  the  fire." 

Immediately  the  younger's  hard  eyes  sought  the 
elder's  with  at  the  same  time  a  question  and  a  gleam 
which  said  that  whatsoever  the  answer  might  be  it 
would  not  in  the  slightest  degree  affect  her  own  action. 

Miss  Epithite  nodded,  however,  almost  impercept- 
ibly. But  Lowood  detected  it.  His  perceptions  were 
singularly  acute. 

Miss  Epithite  turned  again  to  him. 

"  You  invite  us  to  enter?  "  she  demanded  as  a  con- 
stable cautions  a  prisoner  he  has  arrested  that  all  he 
says  or  does  will  be  used  against  him. 

"  I  invite  you  to  enter,"  Lowood  replied  ceremoni- 
ously. "  More  than  that,"  he  added,  "  I  invite  you  to 
feel  at  home." 

"  Never,  sir,"  cried  Miss  Ursula,  with  a  flash  of  the 
eye  and  a  ring  in  her  voice  as  of  one  who  will  go  to  the 
stake  for  her  principles. 

They  permitted  themselves  to  enter  just  within  the 


24  The  Whips  of  Time 

doorway.  And  there  they  stood  firmly,  their  eyes  fixed 
obstinately  on  the  floor,  as  though  with  the  lease  of 
tenancy  they  had  parted  with  the  right  even  to  glance 
round  upon  their  properties. 

"  I  hope  my  sister  and  I  have  too  much  conscience," 
Miss  Ursula  told  him,  with  a  stiff  and  bitter  mouth, 
"  to  feel  at  home  in  a  house  and  a  room  that  have 
ceased  to  be  ours." 

Lowood  perceived  by  this  time  that  he  might  spare 
himself  the  pains  of  attempting  to  propitiate  these  hard 
old  women.  They  had  made  up  their  obstinate  old 
minds,  it  was  plain,  to  regard  his  tenancy  as  a  usurpa- 
tion, albeit  he  had  without  demur  acceded  to  their 
rather  exorbitant  terms  and  his  tenancy  was  to  suit 
their  own  as  much  as  his  interests. 

It  was  plain  that  they  viewed  him  from  the  irrational 
standpoint  of  a  foe,  who,  contrary  to  their  will  and 
principles,  had  been  picketed  upon  them. 

"  Very  well,  ladies,"  he  said  quietly,  "  I  am  sorry 
you  should  take  so  unusual  a  view  of  the  relation  of 
landlord  and  tenant.  I  shall  be  pleased  to  learn  in 
what  way  I  can  be  of  service  to  you." 

He  was  met  by  the  same  unflinching  enmity. 

"  My  sister  and  I  have  no  intention  whatsoever, 
Dr.  Lowood,"  Miss  Ursula  insisted  in  the  same  hard 
voice,  "  of  asking  any  favour  of  you.  I  thought  only 
that  it  had  not  been  fully  explained  on  your  first  visit 
that  we  are  not  absolutely  vacating  the  house,  but  pro- 
pose in  fact  —  although  our  doing  so  will  be  quite 
imperceptible  to  you  —  to  occupy  three  small  rooms 
which  form  an  annex  of  the  right  wing  of  the  cottage, 
and  which  our  father,  John  Epithite,  built  on  to 
Homer  Cottage  in  the  days  of  our  greater  affluence. 
When  you  went  over  the  house  we  carefully  refrained 
from  showing  you  these  rooms  as  we  had  it  in  our 
minds  that  we  might  be  unable  to  find  accommodation 
elsewhere,  and  might  therefore  be  forced  to  fall  back 
upon  the  annex  as  our  temporary  home.  This  has 


Homer  Cottage  25 

happened.  We  must  either  leave  the  neighbourhood 
in  which  we  have  —  we  have  —  " 

"  Resided,"  her  sister  prompted  eagerly,  pleased  at 
the  opportunity  of  an  edgewise  word. 

But  Miss  Ursula  turned  upon  her  harshly.  "  Pray, 
Charlotte,"  she  insisted,  "  do  not  continually  interrupt 
me ;  '  resided  '  was  the  word  I  was  about  to  use  — 
resided,  Dr.  Lowood,  for  a  great  number  of  years. 
Our  doing  so  will  not  inconvenience  you  in  the  least. 
We  have  staked  off  a  small  portion  of  the  orchard, 
beyond  which  we  shall  never  trespass.  Unfortunately 
it  was  impossible  to  do  this  without  including  a  small 
apple-tree  which,  of  course,  legally  belongs  to  you. 
Fortunately,  it  is  old  and  the  fruit  of  inferior  flavour. 
We  trust,  therefore,"  she  concluded  acidly,  as  though 
the  inferior  flavour  of  the  fruit  had  got  into  her  voice, 
"  that  this  arrangement  will  be  agreeable  to  you." 

To  speak  frankly,  Lowood  found  the  arrangement 
far  from  being  agreeable.  A  kind  man  and  a  sensitive 
one,  the  notion  of  keeping  this  hostile  old  couple  for- 
ever on  the  premises,  to  treat  him  as  an  unwelcome 
intruder,  no  doubt  to  watch  his  every  movement  with 
inimical  eyes,  was  distinctly  unpleasing.  Had  he  had 
a  suspicion  of  such  a  condition  of  his  lease,  greatly  as 
Homer  Cottage  pleased  him,  he  would,  I  think,  have 
declined  unhesitatingly  to  occupy  it. 

Yet  how  could  he  now  say  anything  but  that  their 
proposition  was  to  his  taste,  when  he  suspected  that 
the  same  narrow  means  which  compelled  them  to  let 
their  home  to  him  was  the  reason  also  of  their  new 
condition. 

"  The  arrangement  will  give  me  no  inconvenience 
whatsoever,"  he  said.  "  But  pray  use  the  garden  when 
and  how  you  wish.  It,  like  the  world,  is  large  enough 
for  all  of  us." 

Miss  Ursula  bent  a  frosty  head.  "  My  sister  and  I 
are  obliged  to  you,"  she  said  frigidly,  "  but,  as  I  have 
already  said,  we  ask  favours  from  nobody.  The  small 


26  The  Whips  of  Time 

portion  of  the  orchard  which  we  have  staked  off  will 
be  all  we  shall  require.  Come,  Charlotte !  we  must  not 
detain  Dr.  Lowood  longer." 

They  moved  to  the  door.  Their  black,  shabby 
gowns,  both  made  precisely  alike,  were  beaded  all  over 
with  bugles.  The  light  from  the  two  long  windows  of 
the  room,  being  caught  and  reflected  by  these,  gave  an 
impression  that  their  cold  old  persons  were  thinly 
encrusted  with  ice.  Lowood,  receiving  the  impression, 
smiled  to  himself  as  he  held  the  door  for  them.  Then 
another  thought  occurring,  he  inquired  on  an  impulse: 

"  Pray,  Miss  Epithite,  can  you  tell  me  which  is  con- 
sidered to  be  the  family  of  most  consequence  in 
Scrope-Denton  ?  " 

The  elder  lady  with  a  dip  of  her  head  relegated  the 
question  to  the  younger  who,  harder  and  more  domi- 
nant, had  always  taken  the  lead. 

Before  replying  Miss  Ursula  raised  her  hard  eyes 
and  seemed  to  probe  his  for  the  motive  of  his  question. 

It  seemed  that  she  detected  an  unworthy  one. 

She  said  ungraciously : 

"  The  Leghs  of  Hooton  Hoo  are  not  '  considered,' 
Dr.  Lowood,  they  are  the  family  of  most  consequence 
here.  Hooton  Hoo  is  a  magnificent  old  place.  And 
the  family  came  over  with  the  Conqueror !  " 

Lowood  was  agreeably  surprised  that  she  should 
vouchsafe  so  much  information  to  him  in  a  sentence. 
Till  he  saw  from  her  eyes,  which  now  turned  upon  her 
sister  with  a  species  of  challenge,  that  the  information 
was  addressed  rather  to  her  than  to  himself.  And  he 
guessed,  from  the  sister's  immediate  and  spirited  pro- 
test, that  the  subject  had  long  been  a  bone  of  conten- 
tion between  them. 

"  Oh,  no,  Dr.  Lowood,"  Miss  Epithite  objected. 
"  My  sister  mistakes.  The  Leghs  of  Hooton  Hoo  are 
a  good  old  family,  of  course,  but  they  are  less  aristo- 
cratic than  the  Hestroydes.  You  forget,  Ursula,"  she 
continued,  turning  upon  her  sister,  "  that  Mowbreck 


Homer  Cottage  27 

Hall  is  really  a  handsomer  house,  if  the  park  is  smaller, 
than  that  of  Hooton  Hoo.  And  the  Hestroyde  gentle- 
men have  more  frequently  married  ladies  of  title  than 
the  Leghs  have." 

"  I  repeat,  Dr.  Lowood,"  Miss  Ursula  insisted  in  a 
terrifying  voice,  "  since  you  asked  me  the  question, 
that  the  Leghs  of  Hooton  Hoo  are  the  family  of  most 
consequence  in  Scrope-Denton.  I  have  not  yet  broken 
my  sister  of  a  delusion  from  which  she  suffers  that 
the  Hestroydes  of  Mowbreck  Hall,  important  though 
they  are,  are  of  as  much  importance  as  the  Leghs." 

"  But,  Dr.  Lowood,"  Miss  Epithite  insisted,  in  her 
eagerness  clutching  at  his  nearest  arm  with  a  bony 
hand,  "  everybody  here  will  tell  you,  I  assure  you,  that 
the  Hestroydes  —  " 

"  Well,  well,  ladies,"  Lowood  interposed  amicably, 
"  pray,  trouble  no  further.  It  is  a  point  evidently  too 
nice  to  decide.  But  tell  me  of  what  the  family  con- 
sists. Who  are  the  members  of  it?  " 

"  You  mean  of  the  Hestroydes  ?  "  Miss  Epithite  said 
quickly. 

"  Dr.  Lowood  means,  of  course,  of  the  Leghs,"  Miss 
Ursula  asserted.  "  He  was  asking  about  the  family 
of  most  consequence  here." 

The  two  ladies  exchanged  combatant  looks  and 
began  both  to  speak  at  the  same  time. 

Lowood  raised  a  placatory  hand.  He  kept  his  pa- 
tience admirably. 

"Well,  ladies,"  he  said,  "to  tell  you  the  truth,  I 
am  interested  in  both  these  families.  Perhaps  Miss 
Epithite  will  be  good  enough  to  tell  me  about  the  Hes- 
troydes and  Miss  Ursula  will  tell  me  of  her  friends, 
the  Leghs." 

Now  she  turned  her  combatant  looks  upon  him. 

"  Indeed,"  she  protested  coldly.  "  Do  not  suppose  I 
presume  to  claim  the  Leghs  of  Hooton  Hoo  for  friends. 
My  sister  and  I  do  not  pretend  to  be  more  than  the 
daughters  of  John  Epithite  who  —  and  his  father  be- 


28  The  Whips  of  Time 

fore  him  —  was  the  principal  bookseller  of  Riccalby, 
our  county  town;  a  man  respected  by  all  who  knew 
him,  as  I  hope  his  daughters  are  too.  But  it  would 
be  absurd  to  suppose  that  we  have  an  acquaintance 
with  the  Leghs  of  Hooton  Hoo  or  "  —  she  darted  a 
sharp  glance  at  her  sister  —  "  or  even  with  the  Hes- 
troydes  of  Mowbreck  Hall." 

Before  Miss  Epithite  had  had  time  to  utter  the  retort 
he  could  see  she  was  preparing,  Lowood  said : 

"  At  all  events  you  will  know  of  what  the  family 
of  the  Leghs  consists;  how  many  sons  and  daughters 
there  are  — 

"  There  are  no  daughters  and  no  other  sons  except 
Mr.  Robert  Legh,  who  is  an  orphan." 

"  About  twenty-three  years  of  age,  is  he?  " 

"  About  that  age,  I  believe." 

But  Miss  Epithite  corrected  her.  "  Oh,  no,  Ursula, 
you  forget.  He  can  be  only  twenty-two.  You  re- 
member that  day  Mrs.  Legh  first  brought  him  to  the 
High  Street.  That  was  just  twenty  years  ago,  the 
same  year  mother  died.  And  he  could  not  have  been 
a  day  over  two  years  old.  If  you  remember  he  wore 
a  white  embroidered  frock  and  his  sleeves  were  tied  up 
with  spotted  ribbons.  Not  a  day  over  two  years  old, 
I'm  sure  he  wasn't." 

Miss  Ursula,  without  appearing  to  have  heard  her, 
repeated  slowly: 

"  Just  twenty-three,  I  should  say,  Dr.  Lowood.  If 
anything  perhaps  a  few  weeks  older." 

"  But,  Ursula,"  Miss  Epithite  insisted,  "  surely  you 
forget.  Young  Mr.  Hestroyde  is  twenty-three,  and 
I'm  sure  he  looks  two  years  older  than  Mr.  Robert." 

"  They  were  born  the  same  month,  Charlotte,"  Miss 
Ursula  said  acridly.  "  Their  mothers  were  cousins 
and  were  married  the  same  day.  The  double  wedding 
of  Mr.  Legh,  the  principal  gentleman  of  Scrope-Den- 
ton,  and  of  Mr.  Hestroyde,  the  second  principal  gentle- 
man, to  two  cousins,  both  on  the  same  day  —  and  a 


Homer  Cottage  29 

grand  wedding  it  was !  —  was  the  talk  of  the  county. 
And  the  infant  sons  of  the  two  ladies  were  born  the 
same  month  —  a  year  later.  There  were  great  doings. 
We  heard  of  it  in  Riccalby." 

"  It  was  the  first  time  for  years  a  Hestroyde  gentle- 
man had  married  a  lady  without  a  title,"  Miss  Epithite 
rapped  in. 

"  Were  the  boys  born  here?  "  Lowood  inquired. 

Miss  Ursula  threw  a  searching  glance  at  him. 

"  I  suppose  you  know,"  she  said,  "  or  you  would  not 
ask.  There  was  no  doctor  round  about  here  of  suffi- 
cient importance  to  —  to  preside  at  the  birth  of  a 
young  Mr.  Legh  —  nor  even  of  a  young  Mr.  Hes- 
troyde. The  "  —  she  paused  for  terms  of  due  deli- 
cacy, but  was  too  quick  for  her  sister,  who  began 
eagerly  to  supply  them  — "  the  events  were  trans- 
ferred to  London.  And  I've  heard  that  Mrs.  Legh 
and  Mrs.  Hestroyde,  being  much  attached  to  one  an- 
other, went  to  the  same  nursing-home." 

"  You  forget,  Ursula,"  Miss  Epithite  began  shrilly, 
her  eyes  filling  with  fresh  battle-light,  "  you  for- 
get— " 

But  Lowood's  patience  now  gave  out.  He  felt  him- 
self unequal  to  another  tussle  from  which  each  would 
emerge  more  convinced  than  before  of  her  own  infalli- 
bility. He  made  a  slight  movement  as  though  in  re- 
sponse to  some  motion  of  departure  upon  their 
parts. 

"  I  am  greatly  obliged  to  you,"  he  said.  "  One  is 
interested  to  know  something  of  his  neighbours." 

The  ladies  had  no  alternative  but  to  take  their  leave. 
This  they  did  with  a  sudden  accession  of  the  frost 
which  the  warmth  of  battle  had  slightly  thawed. 

Lowood,  closing  the  door  behind  them,  moved  to  the 
fire  in  order  to  warm  his  hands. 

"  The  next  time  I  seek  information  about  these 
Leghs  and  Hestroydes,"  he  reflected,  "  I  will  seek  it 
outside  Homer  Cottage." 


30  The  Whips  of  Time 

Presently  he  rubbed  his  now  thawed  hands  and 
smiled  into  the  fire. 

"  By  Jove,"  he  said  aloud,  "  this  is  better  than  I 
could  nave  anticipated.  I  have  not  only  a  fascinating 
psychological  study  before  me,  but  an  interesting  prob- 
lem of  identity.  Upon  which  now  of  these  ladies  of 
Scrope-Denton,  each  of  whom  seems  to  have  an  equal 
claim  to  consequence,  did  Hummerstone  palm  off  the 
murderess'  child?  That  is  the  problem  I  must  set 
myself  to  solve." 


CHAPTER    III 

SCROPE  -  DENTON 

FOR  the  week  following  upon  his  arrival  at  Homer 
Cottage,  Lowood  allowed  his  problem  to  remain  un- 
assailed. 

He  gave  himself  up  to  the  luxurious  realisation  of 
that  new  freedom  to  which  he  had  looked  forward  for 
years.  He  drew  deep  draughts  of  it  into  his  soul,  at 
the  same  time  filling  his  long  contracted  lungs  and 
quickening  his  long  under-aerated  blood  with  clean 
delicious  air.  The  days  were  fine  with  the  mellow 
fineness  of  September,  which,  rich  with  the  afterglow 
of  summer,  yet  holds  a  tang  of  winter  freshness.  He 
spent  them  from  early  morning  until  evening  in  mak- 
ing acquaintance  with  the  neighbourhood.  He  was 
well  rewarded.  The  place  was  a  little  paradise. 

Below  was  a  charming  indented  stretch  of  pictur- 
esque coast  with  a  sheltered  sea,  out  of  which  rose  two 
islands  of  rock,  appearing,  with  their  softly-rounded 
backs,  like  mammoth  mother  and  child  turtles  gently 
afloat  on  the  quiet  waters.  Above  was  a  range  of 
mountains,  the  fine  varying  outlines  of  which  lifted  in 
massive  tranquillity  cloudwards,  like  giants  in  converse 
with  God.  Between  sea  and  mountains  lay  the  town, 
half  sheltered  from  the  winds  yet  freshened  by  whiffs 
of  it,  which  came  sweeping  and  eddying  down  the 
mountain  clefts,  as  though,  suddenly  finding  them- 
selves trapped  in  the  valleys,  they  were  making  mad 
efforts  of  escape. 

The  main  street  curved  and  straggled  like  a  horse 
zigzagging  up  a  hill.  From  it  at  intervals  roads  and 


32  The  Whips  of  Time 

narrow  pathways  climbed  the  mountains  or  dropped 
down  to  the  sea.  It  was  bordered  with  shops  and 
boasted  a  large,  old-fashioned  inn,  which,  having  re- 
cently added  a  new-fashioned  wing,  had  straightway 
called  itself  the  "  Grand  Hotel."  For  the  place  was  a 
seaside  resort  for  such  as  shunned  the  throng. 

The  church,  too,  stood  in  a  curve  of  the  highway; 
a  Norman  building  with  a  quaint  churchyard  and 
lichen-embroidered  tombstones,  reminding  the  trav- 
eller, as  he  went  his  way  to  purchase  food  and  rai- 
ment from  the  shops,  that,  take  heed  as  he  would  to 
his  earthly  requirements,  it  was  but  to  little  account, 
since  presently  he  too  would  lie  mouldering  there,  and 
his  generation  would  no  longer  know  him. 

Next  door  to  the  church  was  the  ivy-clad  rectory, 
and  a  door  beyond,  the  doctor's  house,  which  with  its 
burnished  plate  setting  forth  his  calling  proclaimed 
that  he  at  all  events  was  prepared  with  drug  and  lance 
to  fight  a  valiant  battle  for  all  comers  with  that  tyrant 
who  has  a  lien  upon  all  bones. 

Lowood  smiled  whimsically,  noting  his  professional 
brother's  big  brass  plate  and  blood-hued  lamp. 

"  I  wonder  if  he  mixes  his  drugs  '  with  brains,  sir,'  ' 
he  reflected,  as  doctors  speculate  upon  one  another's 
methods. 

At  the  end  of  a  week  Lowood  had  stayed  his  vora- 
cious appetite  for  air  and  country  scenery.  And  his 
mental  capacities  began  to  ask  for  some  more  substance 
than  was  supplied  by  a  book  and  a  chat  with  Polly. 

For  Polly,  looking  not  an  hour  older  for  the  quarter 
of  a  century  through  which  she  had  come  with  unas- 
suaged  curiosity,  was  now  his  fellow-inmate  at  the 
cottage. 

The  change  was  vastly  to  her  taste.  Habit  had 
failed  to  convert  her  natural  instincts  to  a  liking  for 
fog  and  the  dingy  gloom  of  London  dwelling-places. 
She  was  a  person  of  flamboyant  tastes.  No  glare 
could  be  too  strong,  no  colours  too  garish,  no  sounds 


Scrope  -  Denton  33 

too  harsh,  no  flavours  of  the  palate  too  pronounced  for 
her.  For  a  week  she  sat  dumb  with  ecstasy,  set  in  the 
sunshine  of  a  window  and  sometimes  of  the  garden, 
where  she  made  crooning  little  noises  of  delight  inef- 
fable, and  pruned  her  wings  and  plumage  as  though 
she  considered  this  new  entrancing  scene  an  occasion 
for  smartening  her  toilette. 

Lowood,  seated  in  the  next  room,  had  been  vastly 
amused  at  Polly's  first  encounter  with  Miss  Ursula  one 
morning,  when  the  lady  believed  him  to  have  gone  out. 

For  it  had  not  taken  him  long  to  discover  that  the 
ladies,  albeit  they  professed  so  unyielding  a  disinclina- 
tion to  trespass  in  his  rooms  while  he  was  in  them, 
nevertheless  haunted  them  like  shadows  the  moment 
he  had  quitted  them. 

He  had  reason  to  suspect  that  they  scrutinised 
closely  each  and  all  of  his  belongings,  that  they  ran- 
sacked his  papers  and  even  read  his  letters. 

He  could  not  help  feeling  annoyed.  But  he  was  too 
much  of  a  philosopher  to  mar  his  new  enjoyment  by 
dwelling  upon  pin-pricks. 

"  When  they  have  satisfied  their  curiosity  they  will 
no  doubt  desert  me  for  more  fruitful  pastures,"  he 
decided. 

Wherein  he  showed  that,  despite  his  large  experi- 
ence of  human  nature,  there  were  depths  in  it  he  had 
not  probed.  For  curiosity  is  a  fathomless  pit  which 
only  deepens  the  more  one  puts  into  it. 

Polly,  no  doubt,  could  have  told  him  of  this.  But 
Polly  was  far  too  astute  a  person  to  give  herself  away 
by  confessing  that  she  shared  any  of  its  weaknesses 
with  humanity. 

Lowood,  sitting  reading  in  an  adjoining  room,  had 
heard  a  door  open,  had  caught  the  clash  of  bugles  and 
divined  that  one  of  the  ladies,  believing  him  to  have 
gone  out,  had  stolen  into  his  room- 
She  had  been  doubtless  informed  by  Lydia,  her 
maid-servant,  of  Polly's  presence  in  the  house.  There 


34  The  Whips  of  Time 

was  a  pause  now,  however,  as  though  she  were  taken 
aback  upon  seeing  the  bird. 

Lowood  pictured  to  himself  the  keen,  beadlike  eye 
wherewith  Polly  would  pounce  upon  the  stranger  and 
the  stranger's  bugles. 

"  And  pray  what  are  you  doing  here,  you  odd  crea- 
ture?" Miss  Ursula  demanded  in  a  disapproving 
voice. 

To  which,  after  a  pause,  Polly  returned  with  mild 
politeness,  and  with  that  singular  talent  for  appropri- 
ate remark  which  was  her  forte : 

"  My  name's  —  Polly."  She  paused  again.  Then 
in  a  tone  of  the  intensest  interest  she  demanded,  as  she 
had  been  taught : 

"  What's  your  name?  " 

Again  Miss  Ursula  seemed  to  be  taken  aback. 

"  What  is  my  name  —  you  impertinent  minx !  "  she 
retorted.  "  Who  ever  heard  of  such  assurance?  " 

Polly  had  been  accustomed  to  inhabit  the  consulting- 
room,  where,  safely  ensconced  behind  a  screen,  and 
listening  with  all  her  ears  for  that  which  passed  upon 
the  other  side  of  it,  she  had  picked  up  a  good  deal  of 
professional  information. 

"  Pray,  Mrs.  Smith,"  she  now  enjoined  in  a  voice 
which  Lowood  recognised  as  a  parody  of  his  own, 
"  pray  be  seated." 

Lowood,  stifling  his  laughter  in  the  other  room, 
imagined  a  space  of  smothered  indignation.  Then 
Miss  Ursula,  angrily : 

"  I  shall  do  nothing  of  the  sort,  you  impudent 
wretch." 

"  Take  a  pill,  dear  lady,  a  —  small  —  dinner  —  pill," 
Polly  counselled  blandly. 

To  which  Miss  Ursula,  seething,  "  I  never  take  pills, 
you  hussy."  Whereat  Polly  replied,  in  the  tone  of 
shocked  astonishment  which  became  the  adherent  of  a 
master  who  made  his  (and  her  own)  livelihood  by  the 
administration  of  pills : 


Scrope  -  Denton  35 

"  Oh,  good  gracious !  " 

Then,  having  come  to  an  end  of  her  professional 
reminiscences,  or  it  may  be  detecting  a  hostile  tone, 
she  relapsed,  as  all  parrots  do  sooner  or  later,  into 
vituperation : 

"  Old  Grumpy !  Old  Grumpy !  "  she  rapped  out 
abusively. 

"Old  what?"  demanded  the  lady,  curiously. 

Polly,  the  cue  being  given  to  her,  completed  the  sen- 
tence. "  Old  Grumpy !  Old  Grumpy !  " 

"  Oh,  so  I  am  '  old  Grumpy/  am  I  ?  "  Miss  Ursula 
said.  "  No  need  to  ask  who  taught  you  that!  A  nice 
gentlemanly  thing  to  do,  I'm  sure." 

"  Good-morning,  Mother  Hubbard,"  Polly  returned 
in  a  tone  of  regretful  but  distinct  dismissal. 

Then  had  followed  such  an  ominous  silence  that 
Lowood,  still  stifling  his  laughter,  had  half  wondered 
whether  Miss  Epithite's  indignation  had  caused  her  to 
fall  into  a  catalepsy  or  had  incited  her  to  a  swift  and 
soundless  murder. 

He  knew  Polly  too  well,  however,  to  believe  that 
she  would  have  yielded  up  her  life  and  impudence 
without  a  shriek. 

While  he  still  wondered,  the  rustle  of  skirts  and  the 
clash  of  bugles  once  more  sounded. 

Going  presently  into  the  room,  Polly's  silence  was 
explained  to  him  by  finding  her  cage  enveloped  in  a 
great  woollen  antimacassar,  which  had  been  done 
either  as  a  retaliative  act  on  Miss  Ursula's  part,  or  it 
may  be  to  screen  her  movements  from  an  observer  so 
dangerously  clever. 

Whatsoever  the  motive,  Polly  had  industriously,  and 
perhaps  spitefully,  gnawed  a  large  peep-hole  in  the 
woollen  atrocity,  which  had  plainly  been  a  work  of 
painstaking  if  mistaken  artistic  aspiration. 

"Heavens!  Polly!"  he  ejaculated,  rescuing  the 
maltreated  work  of  art  and  noting,  with  rueful  eyes, 


36  The  Whips  of  Time 

the  sincerity  of  her   revenge.      "  How  shall  I   ever 
apologise  to  these  old  women  ?  " 

Whereat  Polly  adroitly  changed  the  subject,  inform- 
ing him  in  a  gay  and  ribald  voice  that : 

"  Old  King  Cole  was  a  mer-ry  old  soul ! 
A  mer-ry  old  soul  was  he  !  " 


CHAPTER    IV 

THE    MISSES   EPITHITE 

LOWOOD,  a  few  days  after  his  arrival  in  Scrope-Den- 
ton,  received  confirmation  of  that  adage  which  assures 
us  that  "  the  world  is  small."  It  would  be  more  accu- 
rate to  say,  not  that  the  world  is  small  but  that  the 
orbits  in  which  its  denizens  move  are  small,  and  that 
the  allied  group  of  persons  with  whom  our  fates  are 
linked  come  therefore  readily  into  relation. 

In  his  isolated  position  of  having  no  acquaintance  in 
the  neighbourhood,  Lowood,  a  gregarious  and  sociable 
person,  was  thrown  upon  his  "  Epithets,"  as  he  styled 
them,  for  brief  exchanges  of  idea.  As  we  take  mus- 
tard and  cayenne  pepper  for  their  unpleasing,  rather 
than  for  their  pleasing  effects  upon  the  palate,  so  from 
time  to  time  he  returned  to  brief  and  acrid  snatches  of 
the  old  ladies'  talk.  Their  hard,  fresh-coloured  old 
faces  reminded  him,  as  did  their  converse,  of  crab- 
apples  which  had  grown  upon  a  tree  in  his  father's 
orchard,  and  which,  although  their  sharp  flavour  had 
set  his  teeth  on  edge,  and  could  only  be  taken  with  a 
valorous  screwing  up  of  will  and  face,  yet  had  had  a 
certain  gruesome  fascination  for  him. 

The  annex  of  three  rooms  which  they  occupied  was 
sufficiently  comfortable  to  relieve  his  mind  of  its  first 
sense  of  guilty  compunction  in  usurping  their  home. 

The  compunction,  however,  still  stirred  when,  on 
seeking  the  orchard,  he  would  find  these  two  obstinate 
old  women  seated,  cloaked  and  bonneted,  within  the 
small  rectangle  of  grass  (with  the  ill-flavoured  apple- 
tree  in  a  corner)  which  with  their  own  hard,  old  hands 


38  The  Whips  of  Time 

they  had  staked  off  for  their  personal  use.  They  had 
manufactured  a  fence  of  strips  of  wood  split  from  egg- 
boxes,  painted  green,  and  placed  at  more  or  less  regu- 
lar intervals,  and  connected  by  a  length  of  old  rope. 

Within  this  reservation,  with  its  fence  about  three 
feet  high,  they  sat  for  all  the  world,  Lowood  reflected, 
like  a  couple  of  old  ostriches;  their  backs  turned  reso- 
lutely on  that  beyond  which  was  leased  to  the  usurper, 
their  eyes  chained  to  their  own  portion  of  turf,  and  to 
their  own  ill-flavoured  apple-tree,  or  bent  upon  their 
knitting  or  upon  one  another  in  the  combatant  looks 
of  some  wordy  war  which,  for  the  nonce,  was  waging 
between  them. 

When  Lowood  approached  they  gave  at  first  no 
sign  of  perceiving  him,  and  if  he  desired  a  sip  of  their 
hard-savoured  talk  he  was  compelled  to  stand  firm, 
and  by  dint  of  speaking  in  a  loud,  insistent  voice,  as  of 
one  calling  to  another  across  a  distance,  so  to  compel 
their  attention. 

"  Charlotte,"  Miss  Ursula  would  then  say,  suddenly 
lifting  her  eyes  from  her  knitting,  "  I  thought  I  heard 
somebody  speaking." 

"  No,  Ursula,"  Charlotte  would  answer.  "  It  was 
only  the  wind  in  the  apple-tree."  She  stated  it  always 
in  the  singular,  as  though  even  the  idea  of  the  other 
apple-trees  had  been  let. 

Usually  it  was  not  until  he  had  turned  to  depart  that 
the  old  ladies,  who  in  their  hearts  were  dying  for  a 
gossip,  would  seem  to  observe  him.  Then : 

"  Why,  is  that  you,  Dr.  Lowood  ?  "  Miss  Ursula 
would  say  sourly.  "  I  suppose  you  are  taking  a  stroll 
in  your  orchard?  " 

"  Yes,"  he  would  answer.  "  Will  you  ladies  give 
me  the  pleasure  of  your  company?" 

"  My  sister  and  I  are  obliged  to  you,"  she  would 
retort,  "  but  we  have  already  been  walking  in  our 
garden  and  find  ourselves  fatigued." 

Their  "  garden  "  was  about  ten  feet  square,  and  of 


The  Misses  Epithite  39 

this  a  third  was  taken  up  by  the  gnarled,  sprawling 
branches  of  the  apple-tree. 

Then  they  would  fix  him  with  their  flinty  eyes, 
probing  his  face  for  the  discomfiture  they  desired  to 
arouse  in  him. 

But  after  a  few  mornings  he  ceased  to  be  discom- 
fited. He  knew  human  nature  sufficiently  well  to  be 
aware  that  they  derived  a  greater  portion  of  perverse 
pleasure  from  their  forced  self -martyrdom  than  they 
had  ever  derived  from  their  free  and  unrestricted  ten- 
ure of  the  garden. 

One  morning,  after  some  such  preamble,  he  fell  into 
conversation  with  them,  a  conversation  in  which  he 
proffered  the  bread-and-milk  of  bland  and  banal  ob- 
servations and  they  returned  to  him  (and  to  one  an- 
other) stones. 

Finally,  on  leaving,  for  it  was  a  converse  of  which 
one  might  soon  have  had  enough,  he  passed  the  morn- 
ing paper  across  the  egg-box  fence. 

'  You  and  Miss  Epithite  may  like  to  glance  it 
through,"  he  said,  always,  as  everybody  did,  address- 
ing himself  to  the  dominant  younger.  "If  you  are 
interested  at  all  in  murder  cases,  you  will  find  a  mys- 
terious poisoning  case  on  page  four."  Then,  as  the 
thought  engrossing  the  mind  will  out : 

"  It  reminds  me  of  the  Sarah  Munnings  case,"  he 
added,  "  if  you  happen  to  remember  that." 

The  effect  was  astonishing.  The  old  ladies  simul- 
taneously bounced  from  their  chairs,  their  bugles  clash- 
ing, their  spare  frames  rigid,  their  eyes  flashing  flinty 
indignation. 

"  Sir,"  cried  Miss  Ursula,  in  a  voice  which  for  the 
first  time  within  his  experience  trembled,  "  you  might 
have  spared  us  this." 

"  Spared  you?  "  he  repeated  surprised.  Then  seeing- 
that  they  were  this  time  really  moved  and  not  wilfully 
spreading  the  tails  of  their  gowns  for  maltreatment, 
he  added  apologetically: 


40  The  Whips  of  Time 

"  I  am  sorry  if  I  have  roused  unpleasant  memories. 
If  so,  it  was  of  course  quite  accidental." 

"  Our  name  was  mentioned  in  the  papers.  You  seem 
to  know  the  case,"  Miss  Ursula  charged  him.  "  How 
can  you  have  forgotten  that  it  was  our  father's  mis- 
fortune to  be  nursed  by  that  infamous  woman!  " 

"  Heavens,"  he  broke  in,  "  you  do  not  mean  that 
your  father  was  one  of  Sarah  Munnings'  victims?" 

"  Certainly  not,  Dr.  Lowood,"  she  snapped.  "  I 
wonder  you  can  think  of  such  a  thing  —  " 

"  The  idea !  "  Miss  Ursula  ejaculated. 

"  Pray,  Charlotte,  do  not  interrupt  me.  I  was  about 
to  acquaint  Dr.  Lowood  that  our  father,  John  Epithite, 
lived  respected  by  all  who  knew  him,  and  died  a  re- 
spectable death  in  his  bed." 

"  I'm  sure  of  it,  of  course,"  Lowood  hastened  to 
affirm.  "  I  am  sorry  to  have  caused  you  melancholy 
recollections.  But  as  you  seemed  moved  by  my  chance 
mention  of  the  woman's  name  and  said  that  your 
father  had  been  nursed  by  her  —  " 

"  Two  years  before  his  death  the  creature  nursed 
him  through  an  attack  of  relapsing  fever,"  Miss  Ur- 
sula explained,  "  but  he  was  in  no  way  compromised. 
He  got  well.  And  nobody  ever  ventured  to  suggest 
that  the  creature  ever  gave  him  anything  but  what  the 
doctor  had  ordered  for  him.  He  died  by  the  hand  of 
God,  Dr.  Lowood,  decently  in  his  bed.  Sarah  Mun- 
nings had  nothing  to  do  with  it." 

"  I  am  pleased  to  hear  it,"  Lowood  stated  gravely, 
although  somewhere  a  sense  of  humour  stirred  at  this 
notion  that  to  be  unfortunate  enough  to  be  poisoned 
entailed  a  loss  of  repute.  "  But  as  we  have  got  upon 
the  unpleasant  topic,  and  as  you  have  no  really  sad 
associations  with  it,  may  I  ask  (I  am  especially  inter- 
ested) if  you  can  tell  me  anything  about  the  woman, 
what  was  her  appearance,  her  manner  —  " 

"  Certainly  not,"  the  lady  protested.  "  I  decline 
altogether." 


The  Misses  Epithite  41 

"  And  I  do,"  Miss  Epithite  interjected. 

"  Charlotte,  I  beg  you  not  to  interrupt  me.  I  was 
about  to  inform  Dr.  Lowood  that  I  decline  altogether 
to  discuss  the  manner  and  appearance  of  that  infamous 
wretch." 

Whereupon,  with  a  stiff  inclination  of  the  head,  she 
turned  her  bugled  back  upon  him  and  stalked  into  the 
annex. 

Miss  Epithite  followed,  having  first  swept  to  him 
a  glance  of  mingled  scorn  of  his  conduct  and  pride  in 
her  sister's  proper  rebuke  to  it. 

He,  upon  his  part,  turned  too  upon  his  heel  and, 
smiling  to  himself,  walked  round  the  house,  whence 
passing  down  the  gravelled  walk,  which  was  as 
straight  and  narrow  as  the  path  of  rectitude,  between 
the  unfriendly  peacocks,  which  up  to  this  time  had 
not  relaxed  their  hostile  attitude,  he  betook  himself, 
hands  in  pockets,  for  a  stroll. 

As  he  went  he  encountered  first  the  rector,  a  man  of 
a  genial  manner  and  a  keen  eye,  and  next  the  doctor 
going  his  rounds,  one  in  appearance  rather  like  the 
Father  Xmas  of  the  Yuletide  numbers,  with  a  kind 
expression  and  an  open  ruddy  countenance,  the  product 
of  fresh  air,  of  a  generous  nature  and  of  two  decades 
of  good  port. 

Both  of  these  gentlemen  met  him  with  the  glance  of 
the  intending  caller  upon  a  newcomer,  a  glance  which 
acknowledges  without  recognising  the  recipient. 

He  found  the  High  Street  astir.  Persons  were 
gathered  together  in  little  knots,  men  and  women  and 
children,  all  talking  with  their  heads  together,  all  with 
their  faces  and  the  eyes  in  their  faces  turned  the  same 
way. 

There  was  a  sense  of  expectancy  upon  the  quiet  air. 

Lowood,  as  idle  as  the  rest  of  them,  stopped 
also. 

"  What  is  happening  ?  "  he  inquired  of  a  constable, 
who  was  staring,  but  staring  with  a  pretence  which  in 


42  The  Whips  of  Time 

his  case  was  merely  the  stare  of  duty  in  the  interests 
of  law  and  order. 

"  Why,  sir,"  he  returned  with  an  assumed  indiffer- 
ence, "  I  believe  Mrs.  Beaumont's  expected.  The 
Moonbank  victorier  and  the  brake  for  the  servants  and 
luggage  went  by  a  quarter  of  a  hour  ago  on  its  way 
to  the  station.  The  ladies  be  comin'  'ome  from  furrin 
lands,  and  the  folk  be  lookin'  to  see  'em." 

He  glanced  for  one  moment  in  the  opposite  direction 
to  prove  that  he  was  keeping  a  watch  not  only  upon  the 
law  and  order  in  the  direction  of  the  station  but  also 
upon  the  proprieties  of  the  other  way. 

He  was  too  eager,  however,  to  make  it  more  than 
a  glance. 

The  next  moment  it  had  veered  about  and  was 
gazing  hard  with  those  of  his  less  responsible  neigh- 
bours. 

"  And  who  — ?  "  began  Lowood.  Then,  to  condone 
his  ignorance  upon  a  subject  of  such  common  interest, 
he  interjected : 

"  I  am  a  stranger.  Who,  pray,  is  Mrs.  Beaumont 
of  Moonbank  ?  " 

"Mrs.  Beaumont  of  Moonbank?"  The  constable 
now  gave  his  whole  attention  to  him.  He  stared  him 
up  and  down  with  undisguised  astonishment.  Then : 

"  You  must  be  a  stranger  here,  sir,  if  you've  never 
heard  tell  o'  Mrs.  Beaumont.  She's  the  talk  o'  the 
place.  Has  been  these  ten  years." 

Heavens !  reflected  Lowood.  Is  my  confusion  to  be 
still  further  confounded?  Is  there  a  third  claimant  to 
the  honour  of  being  the  family  of  most  importance  ? 

"  Is  she  the  wife  of  the  squire,  or  who  is  she?  " 

"  She  ain't  that  neither,"  the  man  said,  still  staring. 
"  We've  got  no  squire  here,  not  rightly  no  squire. 
Muster  Hestroyde  an'  Muster  Legh,  they  be  our  two 
gemmen.  But  naither  of  'em's  rightly  squires." 

"  Who,  then,  is  Mrs.  Beaumont  of  Moonbank  ?  " 

"  Why,  Mrs.  Beaumont's  the  Book's  lady.     Moon- 


The  Misses  Epithite  43 

bank  is  one  o'  the  Book's  properties,  his  fav'rite  they 
do  say,  tho'  not  his  finest." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  the  Duke's  lady?  Do  you 
mean  she  is  the  Duke's  wife?  " 

The  man  shook  a  discreet  head. 

"  As  to  wife,  it  ain't  for  me  to  speak.  Some  says 
she  is,  more  says  she  ain't.  'Tain't  any  o'  my  business. 
Besides,  if  it  was  you  can't  go  demandin'  marriage 
lines  as  tho'  they  was  motorists'  licenses.  Even  the 
law  'as  its  limitations.  A  pity  perhaps,  becos  o'  letting 
folks  sometimes  get  out  by  its  back  doors.  But  I 
thought  there  wasn't  nobody  hadn't  'card  o'  Mrs.  Beau- 
mont. She's  know'd  all  over  London,  I've  heard  say." 

"  What  Duke?  "  Lowood  asked. 

"  Why,  the  Dook  o'  Saxby.  An'  a  thunderin'  big 
Dook  I'm  told  he  is.  Ef  he  was  to  do  a  murder,  I've 
heard  father  say,  the  King  ud  'ave  to  'ang  'im  with  his 
own  'ands.  No  one  else  durstn't  lay  a  finger  on  him. 
Can't  say  if  'tis  rightly  the  law.  There's  no  case  of  a 
Dook  in  a  murder  job  since  my  time.  An'  before  —  " 

His  gesture  and  tone  left  it  implied  that  previous  to 
his  time  the  law  had  been  a  thing  beneath  considera- 
tion. 

Then  his  pretence  of  indifference  vanished.  A  sud- 
den stillness  of  the  murmuring  groups,  and  the  quick, 
sharp  trot  of  an  octave  of  hoofs,  brought  his  head 
sharply  about,  lest  his  eyes,  now  casting  duty  and  the 
stranger  to  the  winds,  might  lose  one  whit  of  the  ap- 
proaching spectacle. 

And  he  was  wise.  It  was  a  spectacle  on  which  to 
feast  the  gaze,  on  which  to  feel  the  senses  filled  for  long 
after  the  gaze  had  feasted.  Lowood  cordially  con- 
gratulated himself  upon  having  chosen  to  take  his  stroll 
in  that  opportune  nick  of  time  which  so  richly  rewarded 
him. 


CHAPTER    V 

"  THE    DUKE'S    LADY  " 

THE  Duke's  horses  stepped  high  and  lightning-quick, 
and,  as  though  proud  of  their  fine  burden,  swept  the 
Duke's  lady  up  the  quiet  road  in  a  delicious  twinkling 
of  an  eye.  So  much  and  no  more  was  accorded  of  the 
lovely  vision.  Then  she  was  gone,  leaving  the  mind 
and  retina  of  the  beholder  slightly  dazed  and  stunned. 

The  two  cockaded  servants  on  the  box,  in  their 
brown  and  scarlet  livery,  wore  too  an  air  of  arrogant 
condescension,  as  though  to  them  belonged  some  credit 
in  forming  part  of  the  pageant  now  accorded  to  the 
common  herd. 

And  the  lady  sat  and  slightly  smiled  as  a  Queen 
does,  to  note  the  homage  of  her  loyal  subjects.  Not 
proud  nor  puffed  up  but  receiving  merely  the  right  of 
her  estate.  And  she  reigned  by  no  accident  of  birth 
but  by  an  inherent  birthright  —  the  right  of  a  physical 
peerlessness  which  set  her  above  Queens  and  Em- 
presses. For  the  first  time  in  his  life,  Lowood,  ever 
a  timid  admirer  of  women,  understood  why  the  beau- 
ties of  former  days  had,  like  the  lovely  Miss  Gunnings, 
been  mobbed  in  the  streets,  their  loveliness  exciting  a 
mental  intoxication  bordering  on  madness. 

These  are  days  of  mediocrity.  As  the  general  brain- 
standard  is  high,  but  we  have  no  geniuses,  so  it  is  with 
other  things.  We  have  good-looking,  graceful  and 
charming  women,  but  we  have  lost  that  exuberance  of 
physical  health  which  gives  rise  to  supreme  beauty. 
Nowadays  women  do  not  turn  men's  heads,  scarcely 


"  The  Duke's  Lady  "  45 

indeed  do  they  turn  men's  eyes  after  them  as  they  walk 
through  the  streets. 

The  "  Duke's  lady  "  must  have  been  a  throw-back 
to  a  type  of  former  days,  when  Nature's  hands  were 
fuller,  when  she  fashioned  out  of  no  impoverished  neu- 
rotic clay,  but  in  grand  exotic  flesh,  rich  in  tint  and 
glow. 

Every  line  was  a  curve  of  loveliness,  full  yet  delicate, 
flowing  yet  perfect,  trembling  with  an  exquisite  poise 
on  the  brink  of  excess.  The  great  brilliant  eyes  would 
have  been  too  full  had  not  their  form  been  so  exquis- 
itely modelled,  the  dark  lashes  too  long  had  not  their 
tips  been  twisted  in  a  bewitching  curl. 

Her  lips  would  have  been  over-ripe  and  over-rosy 
save  that  their  sweetness  of  curve  preserved  them  from 
voluptuousness.  They  parted  slightly  on  two  strands 
of  pearls  which  gleamed  with  a  translucent  lustre  as 
though  they  had  been  jewels  artificially  set  there. 

The  face  was  of  the  purest  oval,  such  as  one  sees 
sometimes  in  Italy,  an  oval  of  strength  and  delicacy, 
yet  without  hint  of  moral  weakness  or  of  constitutional 
disease. 

The  hair  was  of  rich  amber  (perhaps  not  unaided 
by  art),  and  broke  into  lustrous  waves  and  ringlets, 
suggesting  rippling  wine  with  the  sun  seen  through  it. 

Much  of  this  Lowood  gathered  in  a  glance.  Later 
he  learned  details,  of  the  hazel  colour  of  her  eyes,  the 
exquisite  veining  of  her  skin,  her  perfumed  breath,  her 
dimples,  her  melodious  voice  and  laughter,  of  the  way 
her  eyelashes  became  entangled  when  she  trailed  them 
with  an  exquisite  guile  upon  a  cheek. 

Now  for  the  moment  she  was  gone.  Nothing  re- 
mained of  the  vision  save  the  rear  wheels  of  her  hand- 
some carriage  sparkling  in  the  morning  light.  There 
was  a  hush  as  though  all  were  retaining  her  image  in 
voluptuous  rumination.  Then  the  spell  broke  in  a  rush 
of  chatter. 

'  There,  sir,"  the  constable  said  proudly,  drawing 


46  The  Whips  of  Time 

a  hand  across  his  mouth,  "  that's  our  Mrs.  Beaumont 
o'  Moonbank.  An'  a  rare  'un  folk  thinks  her." 

"  They're  perfectly  right,"  Lowood  agreed.  "  I 
have  never  seen  anybody  to  compare  with  her." 

"  They  say  his  Grace  thinks  all  the  world  of  her," 
the  constable  confided  with  a  sheepish  look.  He 
seemed  to  feel  that  sentiment  was  derogatory  to  his 
cloth.  "  Wuships  the  very  ground  she  walks  on." 

"  Who  was  she  ?  "  Lowood  asked.  "  You  call  her 
Mrs.  Beaumont." 

"  Ay,  she  calls  herself  so.  It  sounds  furrin.  An' 
they  say  she  came  out  of  Paris,  altho'  rightly  she's  an 
English  lady  born  and  bred." 

"  Wasn't  there  a  lady  with  her?  " 

"  There  mostly  is  —  Miss  Wenlith,  her  niece.  But, 
bless  my  soul,  when  Mrs.  Beaumont's  about  you  don't 
see  nobody  else." 

This  was  true.  Yet  beside  the  vision,  in  a  modish 
hat  of  pastel  blue  with  plumes  and  diamond  buckles, 
he  had  received  a  faint  impression  of  a  pale,  slight  girl 
in  white,  sitting  upon  the  lady's  left. 

He  had  seen,  too,  that  after  the  carriage  had  flashed 
by,  two  young  men  on  horseback,  riding  up  the  road, 
had  drawn  rein  as  they  met  her,  doffing  hats  with  bent 
heads  and  dropped  eyes,  in  attitudes  of  marked  respect. 
When  she  had  passed  they  had  set  their  horses  to  a  trot 
and  had  ridden  up  the  road  by  which  she  had  come, 
nodding  here  and  there  to  the  salutation  of  the  grouped 
townsfolk. 

Lowood  experienced  a  flash  of  recollection.  Where 
before  had  he  seen  the  good-looking,  fair  young  man, 
whose  eye  seemed  to  rest  upon  him  with  a  puzzled 
glance?  He  let  him  slip.  He  could  not  place  him. 
Probably  he  resembled  somebody  else.  England  had 
many  such  fair,  lean,  clean-skinned,  well-set-up  young- 
sters. The  man  with  him,  who  looked  older,  made  a 
striking  contrast  with  him.  Dark  and  handsome,  he 
was  equally  well-made,  and  had  moreover  a  suppleness 


"  The  Duke's  Lady  "  47 

of  grace,  which  allied  with  his  dark  skin  suggested  an 
Oriental  strain. 

The  constable  having  departed  to  his  duty : 

"  Who  are  the  two  gentlemen  on  horseback  ?  "  Lo- 
wood  inquired  of  a  rustic  engaged  in  sweeping  the 
road. 

The  rustic  jerked  a  thumb  after  the  retreating  fig- 
ures, sitting  their  horses  as  though  they  had  been  part 
of  them. 

"Them?" 

To  Lowood's  nod : 

"  Whoi,"  he  said,  with  some  contempt  upon  so  easy 
a  problem,  "  them's  Muster  Legh  an'  Muster  'Es- 
troyde.  Bin  here  ever  since  they  was  horned." 

Lowood,  resenting  the  shrivelling  tone  with  which 
his  ignorance  of  local  things  was  met,  retorted  sharply : 

"  But  you  see,  I  haven't." 

And  leaving  the  rustic  to  turn  over  this  surprising 
intelligence  in  his  dull  wits,  he  faced  round  and  strode 
up  the  road  in  the  direction  contrary  to  that  taken  by 
the  horsemen. 

For  much  as  he  should  have  been,  and  was,  inter- 
ested in  these  young  men  upon  whom  he  had  un- 
expectedly happened,  the  lure  of  beauty  was  still 
stronger. 

"  I  will  see  Moonbank  before  lunch,"  he  told  him- 
self. "  Before  dinner  I  will  look  up  Mowbreck  Hall 
and  Hooton  Hoo.  By  the  way,  at  an  offhand  guess 
I  should  say  the  dark  young  man  is  Munnings.  Both 
look  thoroughbreds.  But  a  strain  of  the  Oriental, 
being  a  strain  of  an  old  race,  might  have  put  that  look 
into  Sarah  Munnings'  son." 

A  mile  up  the  road,  which  all  the  while  gently  as- 
cended and  again  descended,  he  came  upon  two  beaten- 
iron  antique  gates,  their  design  a  fantastic  scroll  pat- 
tern, their  supports  two  massive  granite  pillars,  with 
lions  crouching  on  top. 

From  the  gates  a  broad  avenue  of  elderly  handsome 


48  The  Whips  of  Time 

chestnuts  marched  straight  and  uncompromising,  and 
as  though  to  martial  music,  to  a  handsome  house. 
This,  grey  and  stern  of  aspect,  stood  square  at  the 
raised  end  of  the  drive,  with  not  only  a  who-comes- 
here  ?  challenge  under  its  bent  bows,  but  with  an  aspect 
of  feeling  itself  wholly  capable  of  dealing  with  any 
who  should  have  the  boldness  to  walk  beneath  its  eye, 
unbidden  and  unwelcome,  the  quarter  of  a  mile  of 
straight  broad  walk  that  eye  commanded.  Behind  the 
house,  as  though  reinforcing  it,  rose  a  buttress  of 
mountain. 

"  I  suppose  this  is  Moonbank?"  he  inquired  of  a 
man  at  work  in  the  lodge  garden. 

"  No,  sir,"  he  answered,  "  this  is  Mowbreck  Hall 
—  young  Mr.  Hestroyde's  place.  Moonbank's  a  half 
a  mile  further  on.  Turn  off  to  the  right  when  you 
come  to  the  bridge.  You'll  see  it  right  before 
you." 

He  found  it;  a  small  palace  in  white  marble,  with 
a  dome  and  minarets,  after  the  fashion  of  the  Taj 
Mahal,  fantastic  and  beautiful,  suggesting  a  casket 
wherein  life  must  be  a  string  of  fair  days  threaded  on 
a  silken  thread  of  pleasure.  Niched  on  the  shoulder 
of  a  greenly-wooded  hill,  which  bore  it  as  with  pride, 
it  nestled  serenely,  with  Italian  gardens,  and  pergolas, 
set  in  tiers  of  terraces  approached  by  gently  rising 
marble  steps.  Marble  groups  and  single  figures 
gleamed  amid  the  green,  like  classic  persons  walking 
in  a  garden.  Arbours  and  summer-houses  of  fantastic 
shape  were  everywhere.  The  place  looked  so  fairy-like 
and  so  exotic  that,  in  the  moment  of  first  seeing  it,  an 
impression  came  of  that  palace  which  the  magician  of 
the  lamp  transported  from  across  seas  in  an  Arabian 
night. 

Lowood  was  charmed.  He  found  it  difficult  to  tear 
away  his  eyes  from  beholding  so  much  unexpected 
beauty. 

When  at  last  the  necessities  of  luncheon  could  no 


"  The  Duke's  Lady  "  49 

longer  be  hypnotised   by   his   aesthetic  pleasures,   he 
turned  to  leave,  well  pleased. 

Scrope-Denton  was  proving  itself  no  mere  arena 
for  philosophical  speculation.  It  possessed  more  than 
its  share,  not  only  of  natural  beauty,  but  of  points  of 
human  interest. 


CHAPTER    VI 

HESTROYDE   AND    LEGH 

HESTROYDE  and  Legh  rode  down  the  road  through  the 
town,  past  the  groups  of  watching  people,  for  some 
minutes  in  silence.  Then  Legh  stooped  forward  to 
flick  off  a  pertinacious  fly  from  his  mare's  neck. 

"  By  Jove !  Mark,"  he  said,  "  isn't  she  stunnin'  ? 
Every  time  I  see  her  she  seems  more  stunnin'  than  she 
seemed  before.  Now  with  most  women  you  find 
you're  a  bit  disappointed  when  you  see  'em  again. 
While  you  haven't  seen  'em  your  fancy  has  added 
graces  they  don't  possess." 

The  dark  face  beside  him  was  grave  and  reflective. 

"  It  does  when  you  let  it  run  away  with  you." 

Legh  made  a  gesture  of  impatience  with  his  riding 
crop. 

"  You're  such  a  deuce  of  a  philosopher,"  he  said, 
"  or  rather  you  pretend  to  be.  I  bet  you  can  be  as  mad 
as  any  of  us  when  the  time  comes." 

"  Possibly,"  Hestroyde  admitted.  "  But  you  know 
as  well  as  I  do  that  these  things  are  unsatisfactory. 
It's  all  make-believe,  a  wretched  travesty  of  the  best 
thing  in  life.  You  pay  your  money  and  love  is 
weighed  out  to  you  across  the  counter.  The  moment 
you  withhold  the  coin  the  commodity  is  handed  across 
the  counter  to  some  other  who  is  prepared  to  pay,  or 
even  while  you  pay  is  handed  across  the  counter  to 
some  other  who  will  pay  more.  You  know  those  two 
marbles,  *  The  Bought  Kiss  '  and  '  The  Kiss  of  Love,' 
don't  you  ?  Well,  the  faces  of  the  women  just  express 
what  I  mean." 


Hestroyde  and  Legh  51 

"  Oh,  I  know,"  Legh  said.  "  But  a  man  may  ad- 
mire a  beautiful  face  without  diving  into  the  morals 
of  it.  You're  such  a  chap  for  dipping  deep." 

Hestroyde  laughed.    He  passed  to  a  lighter  vein. 

"  Oh,  I  admire  her  with  all  my  heart,"  he  said. 
"  I  never  saw  any  face  so  perfect,  in  life  or  in  pictures. 
Lady  Hamilton  must  have  been  that  sort.  But,"  he 
grew  grave  again,  "  just  now  I  can  think  of  only  one 
woman.  And  whether  she's  a  beauty  or  whether  she 
isn't,  I  haven't  a  notion.  And  I  don't  care.  I  only 
know  she's  the  woman  for  me." 

Legh's  face,  too,  became  grave.  But,  being  of  san- 
guine, impulsive  temperament,  the  blood  flushed  hot 
and  high  into  it. 

"  For  me  too,"  he  said  sturdily.  He  broke  into  an 
impetuous  laugh.  "  And  Lord  help  the  one  of  us  she 
won't  take !  " 

After  a  pause :  "  I've  half  a  mind  to  hope  it  will  be 
me.  You'll  take  it  so  badly,  old  fellow.  You're 
deeper,  and  more  set  on  things  than  I  am." 

"  Thanks,"  Hestroyde  said.  He  added  :  "  I  must 
take  what  comes." 

"  Seems  to  me,"  Legh  went  on,  "  we  both  of  us  care 
a  jolly  sight  more  for  Joan  than  other  chaps  care. 
We've  all  been  brought  up  together.  We  were  in  love 
with  her  while  we  were  in  knickers." 

Hestroyde  smiled  a  smile  which  contracted  his  lips 
as  the  lips  of  a  man  contract  at  a  physical  pang.  "  I've 
read  somewhere,"  he  said,  "  that  all  men  in  love  think 
nobody  ever  before  cared  so  much  as  they  do.  You 
see  it's  —  it's  a  unique  experience  for  them." 

They  had  reached  now  the  last  house,  marking  the 
end  of  the  town.  The  hedgerows  on  either  side  came 
to  an  abrupt  stop  and  there  was  spread  before  them  a 
stretch  of  common,  with  a  fine  air  blowing,  whip-like, 
over  its  expanse  of  turf  and  purple  heather  patches. 
By  that  simultaneous  impulse  common  to  persons  who 
live  much  in  one  another's  company,  both  urged  their 


52  The  Whips  of  Time 

horses  to  a  gallop,  and  for  some  minutes  went  pound- 
ing over  the  springy  turf  in  an  abandon  of  blood  and 
spirits. 

When  they  came  to  a  halt  they  were  flushed  and 
breathless. 

"  Look  here,  Mark !  "  Legh  broke  out  tempestu- 
ously, his  gallop  having  flushed  every  fibre  in  him 
with  hot,  generous  blood.  "  Tell  you  what  it  is.  You 
shall  try  your  luck  first." 

"  I  tried  it,"  Hestroyde  answered,  with  a  touch  of 
bitterness.  "  We  tossed  last  night  and  it  went  against 
me.  No,  we'll  play  fair.  You  won  first  go,  and  first 
go  you  shall  have."  His  bitterness  of  tone  increased. 
"  But  I'm  not  generous  like  you.  And  I  tell  you  I 
hope  to  Heaven  you'll  fail." 

Legh  winced. 

"  I  can  only  fail,"  he  said.  He  drew  a  quick  breath. 
"  Unless  I  win." 

They  rode  on  again  in  silence. 

As  they  went  he  grew  graver.  "  Haven't  we  made 
a  bit  of  a  mistake,"  he  said,  "  to  choose  the  morning? 
Sentiment  goes  better  in  the  evening.  Besides,"  he 
added,  with  an  abashed  laugh,  "  it  would  come 
easier  when  daylight  wasn't  staring  a  man  out  of 
countenance." 

"  What's  the  odds?  "  Hestroyde  said.  "  My  diffi- 
culty is,  not  to  say  it,  but  to  keep  it  back.  As  to  Joan, 
night  or  morning  will  make  no  difference  to  her.  She 
knows  her  mind,  and  she'll  speak  it." 

"  Suppose  she  rejects  us  both?  " 

"  It  isn't  likely,"  Hestroyde  said. 

His  dark  eyes  glowed  like  shaded  lights.  Despite 
the  fears  and  trepidations  a  man  must  feel  in  putting 
to  the  test  some  question  upon  which  it  seems  to  him 
his  life  depends,  he  was  confident  about  the  issue.  Had 
she  not  shown  in  a  hundred  ways  that  she  loved  him  ? 
It  was  true  she  was  a  flirt,  and  being  an  heiress  and  a 
most  attractive  girl  she  was  ever  surrounded  by  a  knot 


Hestroyde  and  Legh  53 

of  admirers,  to  each  of  whom  in  his  turn  she  gave 
laughing  encouragement.  But  in  his  heart  of  heart 
(the  niche  in  which  she  was  enshrined)  this  one  of 
them  was  assured  that  her  heart  of  heart  was  his. 
Oddly  enough,  Legh,  too,  was  assured  that  it  was  his, 
a  circumstance  which  shows  that  the  lady  in  question 
played  the  game  of  coquetry  rather  too  strenuously 
for  its  legitimate  rules.  But  Hestroyde  found  no  room 
in  his  self-confidence  for  the  generous  compunctions 
of  Legh.  His  more  intense  and  narrower  nature 
found,  on  this  occasion,  no  room  for  more  than  two 
persons  —  the  woman  and  himself. 

Scrope-Denton  was  a  centre  of  fine  residences. 
With  its  sheltered  genial  climate  and  its  natural  beau- 
ties it  seemed  to  have  been  planned  to  this  end.  One 
had  but  to  stroke  the  earth  and  immediately  it  sprang 
into  luxuriance. 

Of  these  The  Folly,  where  Joan  Kesteven,  the 
county  heiress,  lived  with  her  mother,  was  one  of  the 
least  pleasing.  Her  father,  Sir  Qarence  Kesteven, 
had  belonged  to  another  county,  and  had  built  this 
house  in  Scrope-Denton  in  order  to  please  his  wife, 
she  desiring  beyond  all  things  to  live  near  to  her  friend, 
Mrs.  Legh  of  Hooton  Hoo.  Accordingly  having 
bought  the  best  site  available  in  a  neighbourhood  in 
which  the  best  sites  had  been  appropriated  centuries 
before,  and  as  much  land  as  the  Burghwallises  and 
Hestroydes  and  Leghs  had  not  already  appropriated 
by  right  or  by  might,  he  had  had  a  house  constructed 
after  his  own  notions.  It  turned  out  of  course  to  be 
a  failure  within  and  without,  the  latest  modern  im- 
provements, the  owner's  original  views  and  the  canons 
of  art  all  treading  upon  one  another's  toes. 

It  was  built  of  red  brick  and  combined  incongru- 
ously Norman  and  Elizabethan  styles.  Its  owner,  who 
had  been  a  man  of  taste  but  not  a  practical  architect, 
not  only  confessed  it  a  failure  when  completed,  but 
sardonically  styled  it  The  Folly,  and,  it  was  said,  died 


54  The  Whips  of  Time 

of  chagrin  at  the  eyesore  it  made  beside  the  other  less 
ambitious  houses  of  the  place. 

As  the  two  young  men  rode  into  view  of  the  lodge 
Legh's  chaotic  pulses  once  more  flooded  his  face  with 
crimson. 

"  Well,"  he  inquired,  "  am  I  to  go  first?  " 

"  Yes,"  Hestroyde  said,  "  since  '  heads  '  had  it.  I'll 
trot  up  and  down  till  you  have  done." 

"  I  say,"  Legh  appealed,  turning  his  head,  "  wish 
me  luck,  old  chap." 

"  I  tell  you  I  can't  do  that,"  Mark  answered,  his 
face  ashen. 

"  Oh,  well,  here  goes  then !  "  Legh  said  with  a 
breathless  laugh.  He  rode  in  at  the  gate.  It  appeared 
however  that  his  hopes  and  courage  were  to  be  frus- 
trated. Joan  was  out.  And  as  she  had  promised  him 
the  previous  evening  that  she  would  be  in,  and  as  she 
must,  he  had  thought,  have  guessed  the  meaning  of 
his  ardent  tones  and  look,  this  was  an  unexpected 
blow.  Her  ladyship,  the  servant  said,  would  see  him. 
He  did  a  brave  best  to  recover  from  this  check  to  his 
hopes  as  he  traversed  the  distance  from  the  hall  to 
Lady  Kesteven's  boudoir. 

"  Joan  asked  me  to  apologise,  Robert,"  she  said, 
greeting  him  cordially.  "  The  bad  girl  expected  you, 
but  she  has  gone  off  on  one  of  her  rambles.  She 
promised  to  be  back  in  time  to  see  you." 

"  Oh,  it's  of  no  consequence  at  all,"  the  young  man 
answered.  "  I  mean,"  he  added  nervously,  "  I  can 
wait,  of  course.  I  mean,"  he  further  added,  "  I  shall 
be  delighted  if  I  may  talk  to  you  while  I  wait." 

His  hostess  smiled.  Her  eyes  were  large  and  dark, 
with  that  pathetic  look  in  them  which  is  so  frequently 
associated  with  heart  trouble.  Indeed,  the  deep  emo- 
tions which  are  associated  with  such  large  dark  eyes 
sooner  or  later  play  havoc  with  the  physical  functions 
of  this  impressionable  organ.  Joan's  mother  was  an 
invalid,  her  material  life  being  restricted  to  the  daily 


Hestroyde  and  Legh  55 

exchange  of  her  bedroom  for  the  boudoir  which  was 
her  favourite  room,  in  fine  weather  extending  her 
range  of  travel  so  far  as  the  grounds.  But  to  judge 
from  the  deep  and  distant  look  in  her.  eyes  and  the 
nervous  tension  of  her  thin  face,  one  would  have  said 
that  in  mind  and  feeling  she  travelled  much  farther 
afield  than  did  her  more  active  neighbours. 

Having  no  son  of  her  own,  Legh  had  been  her  pet 
since  his  boyhood.  Indeed,  since  the  death  of  his 
mother,  whose  devoted  friend  she  had  been,  she  had 
proved  a  second  mother  to  him.  It  was  the  dream  of 
her  life  (as  it  had  been  also  that  of  his  mother)  that 
Joan  and  he  should  be  married.  Hestroyde,  for  some 
unaccountable  reason,  she  had  never  liked.  Her  dislike 
may  have  had  no  saner  basis  than  that  he  and  she  were 
of  similar  dark  intense  nature,  although  in  Lady  Kest- 
even's  case  there  could  have  been  no  suspicion  of  an 
Oriental  strain.  But,  as  in  electricity,  so  in  human 
nature,  men  and  women  are  most  strongly  attracted 
by  opposite  and  repelled  by  like  poles. 

Knowing  the  young  man  thoroughly  (as  thor- 
oughly, that  is,  as  a  woman  ever  knows  a  man)  a  flash 
of  intuition  told  her  the  errand  upon  which  he  had 
now  come.  Try  as  he  would  to  conceal  his  nervous 
agitation  (and  for  one  of  his  impulsive  candour  he  did 
very  creditably)  it  communicated  itself  presently  to 
her  highly-strung  nature.  Suddenly  her  heart  began 
to  beat  violently,  her  hands  to  tremble.  Soon  she 
could  no  longer  tolerate  the  nervous  perturbation  ex- 
cited by  his  presence. 

"  Robert,"  she  said  in  a  low,  quiet  voice,  "  I  am  not 
feeling  well.  Go,  like  a  good  boy,  to  the  billiard-room 
and  practise  '  cannons.'  I  shall  be  better  left  to  my- 
self." 

"  Why,  of  course,"  he  said,  jumping  to  his  feet  and 
looking  at  her  with  affectionate  concern.  "  I  hope  I 
have  not  bothered  you.  Can  I  get  you  anything?  Or 
shall  I  ring  for  Petherick?  " 


56  The  Whips  of  Time 

She  told  him  it  was  nothing.  A  few  minutes  of 
complete  quiet  would  restore  her. 

"  May  I  look  in  before  I  go?  " 

"  No,  dear.     Come  to-morrow." 

Their  eyes  met.  He  read  in  hers  that  she  had 
guessed  his  secret.  She  knew  already  what  she  found 
again  in  his. 

When  he  had  gone  she  gave  way  to  her  excitability 
in  a  violent  fit  of  trembling.  For,  devoted  to  her  as 
Joan  was,  the  girl  was  self-willed  and  kept  her  own 
counsel,  and  she  was  as  uncertain  as  was  he  —  and 
almost  as  anxious  as  to  what  Joan's  answer  would  be. 


CHAPTER    VII 

JOAN 

HESTROYDE,  sitting  his  horse  like  a  gloomy  sentinel, 
outside  in  the  bend  of  the  road,  caught  the  sound  of  a 
light  step,  heard  the  shrill  of  a  whistle. 

In  a  moment,  without  turning  his  head,  he  had 
sprung  from  the  saddle  and  was  standing  in  the  road, 
his  head  turned  and  his  eyes  and  his  whole  being  to 
the  girl  in  the  white  frock,  whose  light  step  and  her 
call  to  her  dog  had  roused  him  from  his  ruminations. 

She  came  on  leisurely  toward  him,  betraying  neither 
haste  nor  tremor,  her  limbs  moving  with  that  melting 
poise  and  freedom  which  are  evoked  in  a  woman  by  the 
glow  of  a  man's  admiring  eyes.  It  was  as  though  she 
found  herself  walking  suddenly  on  magic  ground.  She 
was  not  beautiful,  scarcely  pretty,  although  no  man 
could  have  suspected  this,  nor  had  he  suspected  would 
he  have  admitted  it.  For  she  possessed  to  an  excep- 
tional degree  the  sorcery  of  sex,  and  this  surrounded 
her  with  such  an  attraction  and  glamour  as  wholly 
prevented  any  man  from  critically  judging  of  her  per- 
son or  her  actions.  This  —  and  not  youth  —  although 
it  belongs  sometimes  to  that  period  of  youth  in  which 
new-fledged  powers  are  paramount,  is  the  true  beaute 
du  diable.  And  this  she  possessed  in  a  remarkable 
degree. 

Albeit  she  would  not  have,  as  Mrs.  Beaumont  would 
have  (and  it  was  whispered  had),  made  a  study  for 
the  nude,  her  curves  being  too  slight  and  ill-defined,  in 
her  clothes,  which  she  knew  how  to  choose  and  to  put 
on,  her  figure  was  perfect. 


58  The  Whips  of  Time 

Hestroyde,  his  eyes  magnetised  by  the  grace  and  the 
spell  of  her,  groaned  inwardly.  If  she  should  say 
"  No !  "  how  would  he  ever  still  his  fevered  passion 
for  her? 

The  next  moment  he  cast  to  the  winds  friendship 
and  such  honour  as  attached  to  the  turn  of  a  coin,  and, 
plunging  strenuously  forward,  caught  her  two  hands 
in  a  passionate  grip. 

"  Joan,  Joan,"  he  cried  hoarsely,  "  I  love  you,  I  love 
you.  You  were  made  for  me,  I  cannot  live  without 
you." 

"  But  you  need  not  crush  my  hands,"  she  returned 
calmly,  trying,  or  pretending  to  try,  to  free  them.  Yet 
the  green  eyes,  which  looked  up  to  him  from  beneatl 
her  smart  hat,  the  black  pupils  widening  till  the  green, 
were  mere  rims,  were  not  calm.  And  one  less  fervidly 
engrossed  by  his  own  agitations  would  have  seen  that 
her  nostrils  vibrated  and  expanded  emotionally. 

"  Joan,"  he  pleaded.  "  Darling,  say  you  love  me. 
Oh,  I  am  mad  —  mad  about  you." 

"  But  suppose  I  don't !  Would  you  have  me  tell 
fibs?" 

"  Anything,  so  long  as  you  say  '  Yes ! ' 

She  no  longer  tried  to  free  her  hands.  She  seemed 
to  find  the  situation  and  her  power  over  him  experi- 
ences worth  prolonging. 

She  screwed  up  her  green,  shining  eyes.  She  re- 
laxed her  full  lips  (no  man  had  ever  been  able  to  see 
that  her  mouth  was  too  large)  on  her  strong  white 
teeth. 

"  Let  me  see  now,"  she  said  with  a  tantalising  dal- 
liance, "  I  do  like  you  a  good  deal.  But  I  like  so 
many  of  you  that  the  difficulty  is  to  know  which  I  like 
best." 

"  Let  it  be  me,"  he  pleaded  hoarsely.  "  Though 
Heaven  knows  I'm  not  worth  it.  Joan,  don't  play 
with  me.  Give  me  the  right  and  I  swear  I  will  force 
you  to  like  me  the  best." 


THEN    HE    CAUGHT     HER      SLENDER     BODY     INTO     HIS    ARMS    AND 
STRENUOUSLY    KISSED    HER. 

[Page  59 


Joan  59 

She  shook  a  white  finger  at  him. 

"  There  must  be  no  compulsions,"  she  protested. 
"  No  tyranny,  no  jealousy,  no  black  looks.  If  I  say 
'  Yes  '  you  must  promise  that  I  shall  have  my  own 
way  in  everything  —  everything." 

"  I  will  promise  anything  if  you  will  only  say 
'  Yes ! '  "  he  protested  eagerly,  and  with  as  much  sin- 
cerity as  men  feel  when  they  make  promises  beyond 
their  power  to  keep. 

Her  mood  changed;   her  green  eyes  gleamed. 

"  I  hate  to  say  it,"  she  said.  "  I  hate  to  be  bound. 
I  have  always  been  free,  have  always  done  as  I  wished. 
It  will  be  like  being  caught  and  put  in  a  cage." 

"  What  nonsense,"  he  insisted.  "  Married  women 
have  far  more  freedom  than  girls.  There  will  be  no 
mother  to  keep  you  in  bounds." 

She  laughed. 

"  Mother  has  never  kept  me  in  bounds  —  has  never 
tried  to.  She  knew  it  would  be  absurd.  But  you 
won't  be  clever  enough  to  know  it." 

"  But,  dearest,"  he  said,  his  dark  face  glowing  as 
he  realised  that  she  was  making  her  conditions  of 
surrender,  "  what  are  these  desperate  things  you  wish 
to  do?  I  have  known  you  all  your  life  and  you  have 
always  gone  as  straight  as  a  die." 

She  laughed  again. 

"  Of  course  I  have,  stupid.  What  else  should  I  do  ? 
But  domesticity  is  such  a  frightful  harness.  I  shall 
feel  like  one  of  those  miserable  horses  one  sees  yoked 
and  blindfolded  going  round  and  round  and  round  " 
-  her  hands  made  supple,  alluring  movements  — 
"  for  ever  in  the  same  monotonous  circle." 

He  laughed  and  passionately  caught  one  of  the 
hands  to  his  mouth.  He  swept  swift  glances  up  and 
down  the  road.  Then  he  caught  her  slender  body 
into  his  arms  and  strenuously  kissed  her. 

"  Oh,  don't,"  she  cried,  struggling  to  release  her- 
self. "  Don't,  Mark.  I  can't  bear  it." 


60  The  Whips  of  Time 

He  released  her,  mortified.  He  did  not  detect,  as 
a  man  of  wider  experience  would  have  done,  that  it 
was  not  his,  but  her  own  roused  passion  at  which  she 
had  taken  alarm. 

Then  his  mortification  was  diverted  by  a  new  de- 
velopment. It  was  his  turn  to  cry  out.  Her  dog, 
a  fine  bull  terrier,  of  a  frightful  aspect  and  of  a  sullen, 
jealous  temper,  had,  with  a  strangled  roar,  suddenly 
sprung  up  and  caught  at  one  of  his  hands. 

The  next  moment,  remembering  himself,  he  had  let 
go  and  was  grovelling  abjectly  at  his  mistress's  feet. 

"  Ugh  !  you  brute !  "  Hestroyde  ejaculated,  startled 
by  pain  from  his  amorous  mood.  He  released  Joan 
and  caught  his  bruised  hand  in  the  other,  gripping  it 
tightly  to  numb  the  ache. 

"  Was  it  Bel  ? "  Joan  asked,  incredulous.  She 
looked  from  her  lover  to  Belshazzar  still  grovelling  in 
the  dust  before  her,  betraying  at  the  same  time  his  guilt 
and  his  contrition.  "  Mark,  did  Bel  snap  at  you?  " 

The  pain  was  passing.     He  laughed. 

"Yes,  the  brute!" 

"  But  I  have  never  known  him  to  do  such  a  thing," 
she  said,  even  now  incredulous. 

He  laughed  again.    In  his  mood,  what  was  pain  ? 

"  He  was  jealous  at  my  kissing  you,"  he  said.  "  He 
had  never  before  known  me  to  do  such  a  thing." 

The  dog  was  now  whining,  lapping  her  feet  and 
tugging  at  her  skirt  to  coax  the  anger  out  of  her.  She 
looked  down  at  him  with  a  set  face. 

Then,  "  Let  me  see  it,"  she  said. 

She  took  and  examined  the  injured  hand.  She  gave 
a  quick  sigh  of  relief. 

"  The  skin  is  only  grazed.  But  there's  the  mark 
of  a  horrid  tooth."  She  trailed  a  finger  over  it. 

"  Don't  think  of  it,  dear,"  he  insisted.  "  If  I  were 
Belshazzar  I'd  do  just  the  same  to  any  brute  but  me 
who  should  kiss  you." 

She  dropped  his  hand.    Her  face  hardened. 


Joan  61 

"  Give  me  your  crop,"  she  said  in  her  strong-willed, 
direct  fashion.  "  Belshazzar  must  be  taught  a  lesson." 

He  would  not  allow  her  to  take  it.  "  Don't  waste 
these  grand  minutes  of  mine.  Don't  think  of  any- 
thing but  me,  dear." 

She  strove  obstinately  for  it.  Then  she  yielded. 
For  a  moment  she  leaned  her  head  against  the  arm 
he  began  to  steal  about  her.  The  next  moment  she 
withdrew  herself. 

"  My  dear  man,"  she  cried  briskly,  "  you  really 
must  not  do  these  things  in  the  eye  of  the  public  road. 
We  shall  be  arrested.  No  wonder  Belshazzar  "  —  she 
shook  a  strong  white  finger  at  him  —  "  objected." 

Belshazzar,  who,  to  be  out  of  the  reach  of 
temptation,  had  retreated  to  a  distance  the  moment  his 
mistress  and  Hestroyde  approached,  now  gave  a  little 
ludicrous  howl,  Nature  having  planned  neither  his 
frame  nor  his  voice  to  sentimental  purposes.  Then 
as  the  lovers,  laughing  at  him,  turned  and  began 
to  walk  toward  the  lodge,  he  got  to  his  feet  and 
trotted  in  their  wake,  with  the  dejected  air  of  one 
deposed  from  a  high  estate. 

So,  Hestroyde  leading  his  horse,  they  sauntered  up 
the  drive,  between  them  the  slight  embarrassment 
natural  to  this  sudden  translation  of  an  old  familiar 
friendship  to  a  warmer  romantic  plane. 

"  By  Jove !  "  he  said  suddenly,  in  a  flash  of  revela- 
tion, "  I  had  forgotten  old  Bob.  And,  by  the  way,  how 
do  you  come  to  be  out  walking  when  you  had  promised 
to  see  him  this  morning?  " 

"  How  do  you  know  ?  " 

"  We  rode  over  together.  Fact  is,  I  was  waiting 
for  him  when  you  came  and  found  me." 

:<  You  speak  as  though  I  had  been  looking  for  you." 

"  Perhaps,"  he  said  fondly,  "  without  knowing  it 
we  have  been  looking  for  one  another  all  these  years." 

She  shook  her  head  vehemently. 

"  I'm  not  sure.    I'm  not  at  all  sure  that  you  are  my 


62  The  Whips  of  Time 

counterpart,  my  fate.  I  don't  feel  a  bit  as  women  in 
novels  do,  quite  seraphically  happy." 

She  stopped  and  stood  looking  up  at  him,  rebel 
gleamings  in  her  eyes. 

"  Mark,"  she  said  seriously,  "  I  won't  answer  for 
myself  although  I  have  said  '  yes.'  I  hate  being 
bound.  You  must  not  try  to  master  me.  I  will  not 
be  ruled.  You  must  let  me  do  anything,  everything, 
I  want  to  do.  Or  perhaps,  after  all,  I  shan't  carry 
this  through." 

He  could  not  help  feeling  some  disappointment  and 
chagrin.  He  felt  that  he  was  giving  everything  to 
her.  The  exchange  she  offered  was  not  fair. 

"  Don't  say  that,  Joan,"  he  pleaded.  "  I  won't 
interfere  with  you.  And  you'll  soon  get  used  to  me. 
It's  only  the  strangeness." 

"  Well,"  she  said,  "  it  is  best  for  you  to  know  how 
I  feel." 

"What  did  Bob  want  with  me?"  she  asked 
abruptly. 

Her  eyes  scanned  his  fine  profile.  It  betrayed  noth- 
ing. Let  him  not  further  fail  his  friend!  Although 
I  cannot  say  that  his  lapse  was  giving  him  any  f^reat 
concern.  Indeed,  he  congratulated  himself  that  j-egh 
had  by  it  been  spared  the  pain  of  a  spoken  rejection. 

"  Oh,  nothing  much,"  he  said.  "  Something  about 
a  horse,  or  a  dog,  or  a  gun,  no  doubt.  What  else  do 
we  talk  about  down  here?  " 

As  they  neared  the  house  they  saw  that  he  was 
standing  on  the  steps.  The  billiard-table  had  not  long 
served  as  an  outlet  for  his  agitation.  He  had  come 
out  to  look  for  Joan's  return. 

He  saw  them  before  they  had  seen  him.  No  doubt 
he  gleaned  the  truth.  For  by  the  time  they  had  come 
up  with  him  his  face  was  set  and  pale.  All  the  ardent 
expectation  Hestroyde  had  last  seen  in  it  was  gone. 

"  How  do,  Joan,"  he  said  quietly,  as  he  went  down 
the  steps  to  meet  her.  "  What  a  person  you  are !  Said 


Joan  63 

you'd  be  in,  and  kept  me  kicking  my  heels  here  half 
the  mornin'  waitin'  for  you." 

"  Bobby,  I'm  frightfully  sorry,"  she  said.  "  I  knew 
it  was  something  of  no  consequence.  And,"  with  a 
laugh,  "  you're  just  as  much  at  home  here  as  at  Hoo- 
ton.  I  knew  you'd  find  plenty  of  occupation." 

But  she  turned  her  eyes  rather  guiltily  from  his  set 
face.  Robert  Legh  with  a  set  and  sober  face  was  a 
new  spectacle  and  one  which  pricked  her  con- 
science. 

Only  a  week  before  she  had  laughingly  allowed  him 
to  kiss  her  in  the  palm-house  after  dinner.  And  despite 
her  coquetry  and  her  love  of  admiration  —  perhaps 
because  of  it  —  it  was  not  her  habit  to  allow  men  to 
kiss  her. 

He  forced  a  smile. 

"  I've  been  practising  cannons,"  he  said,  "  and  man- 
aged some  decent  ones,  just  because  there  was  nobody 
there  to  see.  But,  I  say,  I  must  be  off.  I've  got  a 
chap  comin'  to  lunch.  What  I  had  to  say  —  will 
keep." 

He  was  not  able  to  repress  one  little  gulp. 

"  Bye-bye,  Jo.    Ta-ta,  Mark." 

He  realised  now  in  a  sudden  hardening  of  heart,  as 
his  eyes  would  not  go  to  his  friend,  that  when  he  had 
almost  hoped  that  the  prize  would  have  been  to  him  it 
had  been  out  of  the  glow  of  a  heart  assured  of  its  own 
success. 

"  May  I  come  in  to  see  Lady  Kesteven  ?  "  Hes- 
troyde  asked. 

Joan's  eyes  were  following  Legh's  stalwart  figure 
as  he  betook  himself  round  to  the  stables  for  his  horse. 
Despite  his  strong,  quick  step  she  read  dejection  in 
him. 

She  turned  her  head  slowly  about.  "  See  mother  ?  " 
she  said.  "  Oh,  no,  go  home.  I'll  tell  her.  I  suppose 
you  know  she'll  be  frightfully  disappointed." 

"  Yes,  I  know.     I'm  no  favourite  of  hers,"  he  an- 


64  The  Whips  of  Time 

swered,  his  face  clouding  with  the  huffiness  to  which 
dark  men  are  prone. 

Then  his  face  glowed  again,  meeting  the  half- 
smiling,  shining  eyes. 

"  Joan,  dear  Joan,"  he  pleaded,  "  let  me  come  in 
for  a  minute  to  say  good-bye  —  decently." 

"  No,"  she  resisted.  And  her  tantalising,  lingering 
look  upon  him  showed  that  it  was  a  resistance.  "  We 
can  say  it  quite  decently  here." 

She  gave  him  a  strong,  white  hand.  "  Good-bye," 
she  said.  She  gave  him  another  tantalising  glance. 
"  You  may  come  again  rather  soon." 

"  I  shall  come  to  tea,"  he  threatened. 

"  Do,"  she  said.  "  It  will  make  a  pleasant  party. 
The  Tempests  are  coming." 

"  Oh,  you  are  too  bad,"  he  told  her,  with  a  vexed 
lip. 

She  laughed  and  went  into  the  house. 


CHAPTER   VIII 

A   MEETING 

LEGH,  riding  home  in  a  black  study  of  depression,  the 
reins  loose  on  his  mare's  neck,  was  recalled  to  himself 
by  the  sight  of  a  man  approaching  him.  Recalled  from 
his  sombre  thoughts  he  looked,  stared,  and  as  he  came 
up  with  him  drew  rein. 

"  I  thought  it  was  you,  Dr.  Lowood,"  he  said  cor- 
dially, "  when  I  passed  you  this  morning.  You  don't 
remember  me,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  I  remember  you  perfectly,"  Lowood,  who  was 
returning  from  his  jaunt  to  Moonbank,  answered. 
"  You  were  a  patient  of  mine  about  four  years  since. 
You  did  not  tell  me  you  were  a  native  of  Scrope- 
Denton." 

"  Didn't  I  ?  No  doubt  I  gave  you  my  hotel  address. 
I  say,  you  performed  a  perfect  miracle  in  my  case. 
Saved  my  life  as  sure  as  fate.  Not,"  he  added,  in  a 
sudden  gloomy  afterthought,  "  that  life  is  much  of  a 
thing." 

"  Oh,  it  is,"  the  physician  insisted,  with  a  smile  and 
a  keen  glance.  "  If  one  is  well,  and  well-off  and 
young.  But  I  assure  you,  I  performed  no  miracle ; 
you  had  been  smoking  your  nerves  and  your  heart 
to  perdition.  I  said  '  Limit  your  tobacco  or  you'll  be  a 
hypochondriac  at  thirty.'  You  cured  yourself  by  do- 
ing that  most  rare  of  things,  following  your  doctor's 
advice." 

"  And  was  well  in  three  weeks,  sir.  I  thought  I 
was  going  all  to  pieces." 

Lowood  laughed,  and  looked  him  up  and  down. 


66  The  Whips  of  Time 

"  My  dear  boy,"  he  said  paternally,  "  you  are  as 
sound  as  the  British  constitution,  perhaps  sounder. 
You'd  take  a  considerable  deal  of  killing." 

"  Thanks,  sir,"  the  young  man  said.  "  I  feel  pretty 
fit.  I  suppose  you're  stopping  with  friends  down 
here." 

"  No,"  Lowood  said.  "  I'm  what  you  would  call 
'  on  my  own.'  '  He  smiled  whimsically  up  at  him. 
"  An  expressive  phrase,  but  one  unsuited  to  the  con- 
sulting-room. I  have  taken  Homer  Cottage.  I  call 
it  Homer  misnomered.  Anything  less  Hellenic  it 
would  be  difficult  to  find." 

"  Jove !    Have  the  Epithets  gone  ?  " 

"  So  the  joke  isn't  mine.  Is  it  possible  in  these  days 
to  be  original?  However,  it  was  very  obvious.  No, 
the  old  ladies  live  in  a  portion  of  the  house  they  call 
the  annex.  And  although  I  should  have  been  pleased 
for  them  to  use  the  garden,  they  have  insisted  on 
fencing  off  a  few  square  yards  of  it  and  sit  there  like 
a  couple  of  obstinate  old  ostriches  with  their  heads  in 
the  sand." 

Legh  laughed. 

"  How  like  them !  They're  a  couple  of  old  char- 
acters. Everybody  knows  them,  and  is  amused  by 
them.  Their  father,  and  his  father  before  him,  were 
the  Riccalby  booksellers,  most  decent  old  chaps.  I 
heard  the  old  ladies  had  lost  money.  So  you've  settled 
in  Homer  Cottage.  If  you're  not  doing  a  rest  cure, 
or  a  solitude  cure,  I  should  like  to  call." 

"  I  shall  be  thankful.  I'm  doing  no  cure  of  any 
sort.  But  I  think  I  should  soon  need  to  do  one  if  I 
were  to  live  much  longer  with  the  old  bore  I  find 
myself  to  be." 

Legh  beamed  out  of  his  mental  clouds.  Lowood 
possessed  the  united  charms  of  a  candid  sympathy  and 
a  quaint  humour.  People  took  readily  to  him. 

"  You'll  be  an  acquisition  here,"  Legh  said.  "  Whip 
up  our  brains  and  that.  We  just  wallow  in  sport,  and 


A  Meeting  6? 

half  the  time  are  too  dog-tired  to  know  we  have  any 
brains." 

They  exchanged  "  Good-morning !  "  and  Legh  rode 
on.  Lowood  looked  after  him. 

"  The  dark  one  is  Munnings,"  he  again  decided. 
"  This  boy  is  the  typical  old  English  gentleman,  the 
finest  stock  and  raw  material  in  the  world.  The  pity 
of  it  is  that  it  too  frequently  remains  in  the  raw,  is, 
as  he  said,  so  often  dog-tired  with  outdoor  sports  that 
the  brain  gets  no  chance.  And  the  men  become  heavy 
and  mindless  toward  middle-age.  Though  even  then 
they  have  still  the  fine  elements  of  the  best  human 
stuff  in  the  world." 

A  few  days  later  Homer  Cottage  was  thrown  into 
a  state  of  mental  ferment. 

"  Ursula,  when  I  saw  young  Mr.  Legh  stop  his 
horse  and  dismount  at  the  gate,  and  walk  up  the  drive, 
and  heard  him  ask  for  Him,  you  could  have  knocked 
me  down  with  a  feather,"  Miss  Epithite  said. 

"  He  hadn't  mentioned  a  word  of  it,"  Ursula  re- 
plied. "  What  I  want  to  know  is,  does  He  know  him  ? 
And  had  He  expected  him  ?  " 

They  spoke  in  whispers,  their  heads  crooked  to- 
gether. Legh  was  still  in  the  house,  but  there  was 
not  the  smallest  risk  that  their  thin  old  voices  could 
have  penetrated  the  walls  and  rooms  between  the  annex 
and  the  drawing-room.  It  was  more  a  sense  of  de- 
lightful mystery  than  a  fear  of  being  overheard  which 
caused  them  to  speak  in  undertones. 

"  I'm  afraid  we  shall  never  know  that,"  Charlotte 
said,  with  a  desponding  desperation,  "  never  as  long 
as  we  live.  Not  unless,"  she  added,  "  not  unless  we 
were  to  ask  Him." 

Lowood  had  come  by  this  time  to  be  known  between 
them  as  He  and  Him,  very  much  after  the  fashion  it 
was  at  one  time  the  custom  to  speak  of  Napoleon  — 
the  Arch  Foe  of  all. 


68  The  Whips  of  Time 

"  Ask  Him,"  Ursula  repeated  shrilly.  "  Charlotte, 
Fm  astonished  at  you.  No  power  on  earth  would 
induce  me  to  ask  anything  of  Him !  " 

"  Of  course  not,  Ursula,  of  course  not.  Only  I 
should  so  like  to  know,"  Miss  Epithite  said  pitifully. 

"  Then  I  can  tell  you.  If  He's  what  you  think  — 
I  think  absurdly  —  an  anarchist,  or  if  He's  what  I 
think  —  and  I  think  rightly  —  a  detective,  young  Mr. 
Legh  is  not  calling  on  him  socially,  but  as  a  magistrate 
in  answer  to  some  letter  or  something  He  has  sent 
him." 

"  But,  Ursula,  I've  seen  all  his  letters  —  carefully. 
And  He  hasn't  written  one  to  young  Mr.  Legh,  nor  has 
young  Mr.  Legh  ever  written  to  him." 

"  He  may  have  posted  a  letter  himself.  He's  so 
sly  there's  no  knowing  what  he  wouldn't  do  —  and  if 
young  Mr.  Legh  meant  to  call,  there'd  be  no  need  for 
him  to  write.  Besides,  how  do  you  know  He  has  not 
been  to  call  at  Hooton  Hoo  himself?  He  has  assur- 
ance enough  for  anything." 

"  But  I  don't  think  he  has.  I  always  see  the  way 
he  goes,  and  learn  who  he  has  met,  and  where.  I 
don't  think  He's  called  at  Hooton  Hoo.  Besides,  of 
course,  if,  as  I  think,  he  is  an  anarchist,  he  would  keep 
as  much  away  as  possible  from  magistrates." 

"  That's  another  reason  against  him  being  an  anar- 
chist. He  very  likely  has  put  his  nose  in  at  Hooton 
Hoo.  And  it's  absurd  to  think  he's  an  anarchist. 
There  are  no  Russians  or  Czars  in  Scrope-Denton  to 
be  blown  up.  What  would  he  be  doing  here  ?  " 

Miss  Epithite  had  a  flash  of  intelligence. 

"  You  see,  he  may  already  have  blown  them  up  and 
may  be  hiding." 

Miss  Ursula  was  impressed.  This  sounded  prob- 
able. But  she  reverted  obstinately  to  her  previous 
view. 

"  It  is  all  nonsense,"  she  insisted.  "  Charlotte,  how 
can  you  talk  such  nonsense?  The  man  is  a  detective 


A  Meeting  69 

trying1  to  trace  some  murderer  or  burglar,  or  to  fix  a 
murder  or  a  burglary  on  some  innocent  person.  I 
know  the  ways  of  these  persons.  You  notice  he  has 
two  newspapers  every  blessed  morning.  What  does 
an  honest-dealing  man  want  with  more  than  one  daily 
paper  to  take  with  his  breakfast?  And  He  sits  with 
his  head  buried  in  them  sometimes  until  half-past  ten. 
And  spectacles  too." 

"  Perhaps  he  can't  see  without  spectacles,  Ursula. 
I  can't." 

"  But  I  can.  And  so  can  He,  I'm  sure,  as  well 
as  any  honest-dealing  man  requires  to  see.  I  tell  you 
he's  a  detective,  handsomely  paid  by  the  Government 
to  do  some  disgraceful  work.  If  he  was  an  anarchist 
he'd  be  messing  about  with  dynamite  and  things.  And 
there's  not  a  trace  even  of  gunpowder  about  the  place." 

"  Still,  I  can't  help  thinking  he  must  be  an  anar- 
chist," Miss  Epithite  insisted  timidly.  "  He  has  such 
a  mysterious  manner.  And  he  smiles  so  slyly." 

"  That  is  what  detectives  do,  not  anarchists,  Char- 
lotte." 

"Yes,  but,  Ursula  —  '1 

But  Ursula  had  come  to  the  end  of  her  patience. 
With  a  gesture  of  exasperation  she  shelved  the  subject. 

"  What  has  he  got  for  dinner  this  evening  ?  "  she 
asked  inquisitively. 

"  Palestine  soup  with  toast,  and  a  grouse  with  Jeru- 
salem artichokes,  and  chipped  potatoes,  and  gravy,  and 
bread  sauce,  and  toasted  bread-crumbs.  After  that 
an  apple-charlotte  made  with  apples  out  of  his  orchard, 
and  three  pennyworth  of  cream,  and  castor  sugar. 
After  that  Camembert  cheese,  and  biscuits  and  celery. 
After  that  coffee." 

The  mouths  of  the  old  ladies  watered,  their  hard 
eyes  grew  misty. 

"And  we?"  Ursula  asked,  for  dramatic  effect 
rather  than  for  information,  their  dietary  being  sub- 
ject to  but  little  change. 


70  The  Whips  of  Time 

"  To-night  we  shall  have  poached  eggs  to  our  tea. 
And  Lydia  has  made  a  ginger  cake." 

Miss  Ursula  sniffed  disdainfully. 

"  I  suppose  he  has  wine." 

"  A  half  bottle  of  claret  with  the  name  of  some 
French  saint  on  the  label." 

"  Then  I'll  be  bound  he's  a  Papist,  perhaps  even  a 
foreigner,"  Miss  Ursula  broke  out  vindictively. 

In  the  meantime,  unconscious  of  the  hostile  senti- 
ments seething  within  thirty  feet  of  them,  Lowood  and 
Legh  were  fostering  a  friendship  born  of  reciprocal 
attraction,  and  assisted,  on  the  young  man's  part,  by 
that  gratitude  which  a  warm-hearted  patient  is  likely 
to  feel  for  a  doctor  to  whom  he  believes  he  owes  his 
life;  on  Lowood's  part  by  his  psychological  interest 
in  a  human  problem,  as  well  as  by  certain  paternal 
instincts,  which,  having  no  other  outlet,  filled  him 
with  benign  yearnings  toward  the  young  of  both 
sexes. 

"  The  dark  young  man  I  saw  riding  with  you  the 
other  day  is  Mr.  Hestroyde  of  Mowbreck  Hall,  I  un- 
derstand. Fine-looking  chap !  "  Lowood  said,  his  keen 
eyes  on  his  visitor,  no  trace  in  his  level  voice  of  his 
desire  to  learn  more  of  Legh's  friend. 

Legh's  expression  fell,  his  blue  eyes  lost  some  of 
their  light. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  and  relapsed  into  abstraction.  He 
roused  himself  with  an  effort.  "  I  wanted  him  to  come 
with  me  this  afternoon.  He  means  to  call  on  you. 
But  at  present  he  has  only  one  idea.  He  is  just  en- 
gaged to  be  married." 

Lowood  wondered  why  the  young  man  spoke  de- 
jectedly, decided  that  it  was  at  the  prospect  of  losing 
his  friend,  then  lost  himself  in  a  flash  of  interest  at 
the  news.  Things  were  complicating  themselves.  He 
laughed  cynically  in  his  sleeve.  What  would  the  lady 
who  had  engaged  herself  to  him  think  if  she  should 


A  Meeting  71 

know  that  he  was  young  Munnings,  he  wondered. 
If  he  were  indeed  young  Munnings ! 

"To  a  local  lady?" 

"  Yes,  to  Miss  Kesteven.  She  lives  with  her  mother 
at  The  Folly,  that  queer-looking,  red-brick  house  be- 
tween this  and  Hooton.  We  have  known  —  he  has 
known  —  her  all  his  life." 

Something  in  the  way  he  caught  his  breath  and 
shouldered  himself  briskly  out  of  the  association  sent 
Lowood's  eyes  to  him.  In  a  flash  he  lighted  upon  the 
truth.  The  flash  was  succeeded  by  another  specula- 
tion. Supposing  Miss  Kesteven  had  known  all  the 
facts,  would  she  have  taken  Munnings  in  preference 
to  Legh?  It  gave  him  an  odd  sense  of  power  to  feel 
that  the  destinies  of  these  young  men  were  possibly  in 
his  hands. 

"  I  shall  like  to  meet  your  friend,"  he  told  Legh. 
He  repeated  that  he  was  a  fine-looking  chap. 

Then  further  rational  talk  was  spoiled  by  the  inter- 
vention of  Polly,  who,  having  kept  the  visitor  all  the 
while  transfixed  on  the  point  of  a  bead-eye,  decided 
that  he  was  a  sufficiently  agreeable  person  to  be  treated 
to  some  of  her  talents.  Accordingly  she  broke  across 
a  pause  by  exclaiming,  in  tones  of  consternation : 

"  Where's  my  Polly  gone  ?  Heavens !  Where  is 
Polly  ?  "  leaving  it  to  be  supposed  that  she  had  sud- 
denly gone  to  look  for  herself  and  had  been  overcome 
by  the  shock  to  find  that  she  was  missing. 

The  young  man  laughed  and  went  to  her  cage.  She 
ducked  a  confiding  poll. 

"  How  can  I  tell  you  won't  take  off  the  top  of  my 
finger,  old  girl  ?  "  he  submitted  warily. 

"  She  won't,"  Lo\vood  said,  "  she  has  a  squaw-like 
adoration  for  our  sex.  If  you  were  a  woman  it  would 
be  a  different  affair." 

Polly  not  only  permitted  him  to  stroke  her  feathered 
head,  she  even  proffered  medical  advice. 

"  A  teaspoon ful  of  Carlsbad  for  your  liver  —  for 


72  The  Whips  of  Time 

your  liver,  my  dear  sir,"  she  bade  him  in  a  confiden- 
tial undertone. 

"  Come  up  on  Sunday,  will  you  ?  "  Legh  invited 
Lowood  when  he  rose  to  leave.  "  It's  about  the  only 
afternoon  you'll  find  me  in.  Down  here  we  call  a  day 
wasted  when  we  spend  it  in  the  house.  But  on  Sunday 
afternoons  I'm  nearly  always  in,  recovering  from 
morning  church." 

Lowood  walked  down  the  garden  path  with  him. 

"  By  the  way,"  he  said  whimsically,  pointing  to  the 
militant  peacocks,  "  is  it  my  fancy  or  do  these  fellows 
look  to  you  also  as  though  they  resented  my  tenancy 
of  Homer  Cottage?  To  me  they  look  absolutely 
vicious." 

Legh  stared,  first  at  the  yew  birds,  then  at  Lowood. 
It  was  plain  he  was  mystified.  Then  he  said  practi- 
cally : 

"  Why,  they  don't  look  quite  right  to  me  either. 
I  guess  old  Cooper  clipped  them  instead  of  Hooper. 
Hooper's  the  best  topiarist  about  here." 

Lowood  gazed  after  his  retreating  back. 

"  I  wonder  what  it  feels  like,"  he  reflected,  "  to  be 
without  imagination  and  to  see  things  just  as  they 
are,  or  as  they  are  not !  It  is  all  according  to  the  view- 
point." 

He  stepped  back  between  his  yew  enemies  with  a 
sense  that  they  were  pecking  at  his  heels. 

"  Charlotte  Epithite,  did  you  hear  that  ?  " 

"  What  do  you  make  of  it,  Ursula?  " 

"  Make  of  it  ?  What  else  could  anybody  make  of  it, 
Charlotte.  Epithite?  He's  not  only  what  he  pretends 
not  to  be,  but  he's  not  what  he  pretends  to  be." 

"  Isn't  it  the  same  thing,  Ursula  ?  "  Miss  Epithite 
protested  with  a  timid  obstinacy. 

"The  same  thing!  It's  absolutely  different.  He 
worms  his  way  into  our  home,  and  us  out  of  it,  by 
pretending  to  be  Dr.  Lowood,  a  London  physician. 


A  Meeting  73 

But  do  you  suppose  that  would  be  enough  to  make 
young  Mr.  Legh  invite  him  to  visit  at  Hooton  Hoo? 
He  must  be  a  perfect  master  of  crimes  or  he'd  never 
have  got  young  Mr.  Legh  to  invite  him  to  Hooton 
Hoo  on  Sundays." 

Miss  Epithite  never  forgot  that  she  was  the  elder, 
and  therefore  by  right  of  birth  entitled  to  take  the 
lead.  Nor  did  her  only  less  dominant  will  allow  her 
to  forgive  her  sister  for  usurping  that  privilege.  Ac- 
cordingly she  had  a  habit  of  retaliating  upon  her  by  a 
species  of  sly  ingenuousness.  This  she  assumed  now. 

Looking  into  her  sister's  face  she  said : 

"  Oh,  then,  Ursula,  you  think  that  young  Mr.  Legh 
has  really  a  taste  for  criminals  and  other  bad  people, 
if  only  they  are  bad  enough  ?  " 

"Did  I  say  so,  Charlotte?"  was  demanded  in  an 
awful  voice.  "  Have  you  ever  heard  me  speak  any- 
thing but  good  of  this  young  gentleman  whom  I  re- 
member when  he  was  four  years  old  —  " 

"  Oh,  I  think  only  three,"  Miss  Epithite  protested, 
"  because,  if  you  remember,  Ursula,  he  wore  a  white 
embroidered  frock  and  his  sleeves  were  tied  up  with 
blue  ribbons,  that  afternoon  when  his  dear  mother 
brought  him  to  the  High  Street.  But  didn't  you  just 
now  say  that  if  he  hadn't  been  a  perfect  master  of 
crimes  he  never  would  have  got  young  Mr.  Legh  to 
invite  him  to  Hooton  Hoo  of  a  Sunday  ?  " 

This  sly  ingenuousness  was  the  one  weapon  to  which 
Miss  Ursula  succumbed.  It  was  baffling,  outwitting 
and  elusive.  One  could  no  more  corner  it  than  one 
could  corner  a  shadow.  When  it  had  seemed  to  be 
pinned  to  a  spot  it  would  run  up  the  wall  and  begin 
to  dance  upon  the  ceiling.  Time  and  again  she  had 
given  herself  a  bad  headache  by  striving  with  it.  Now 
she  stalked  before  it  into  the  house.  But  Charlotte 
knew  her  strength.  And  the  subject  of  young  Mr. 
Legh's  predilection  for  criminals  promised  many  a 
delightful  afternoon  to  her. 


CHAPTER    IX 

LOWOOD    CALLS   ON   LEGH 

THE  following  Sunday,  soon  after  lunch,  Lowood 
started  for  Hooton  Hoo  with  a  sense  of  pleasurable 
interest.  Since  Legh  had  recognised  him  he  had  not 
ceased  to  congratulate  himself  upon  the  circumstance 
that  all  roads  of  illness  lead  to  a  London  consulting- 
room,  a  fact  which  had  unlocked  for  him  the  door  of 
Scrope-Denton  society,  which  otherwise  might  have 
remained  fast  shut  to  all  his  efforts. 

The  afternoon  was  fine,  though  misty.  He  had 
allowed  himself  plenty  of  time.  He  went,  well  pleased 
in  mind  and  leisurely  of  pace,  through  the  rich  flames 
of  gold  and  crimson  which  Nature  had  kindled,  serving 
at  the  same  time  for  a  splendid  funeral  pyre,  and  by 
a  proclamation  of  the  ruddy  life  still  left  in  her  for 
a  covenant  of  her  revivification.  The  flames  were  at- 
tended by  the  crackling  of  leaves  beneath  the  feet,  and 
by  the  flinging  of  a  score  of  incense-like  aromas  on 
the  air. 

The  robins,  looking  in  their  autumn  plumage  as 
though  their  plump  scarlet  breasts  too  had  caught  fire, 
cast  drops  of  sweetness  which  were  as  drops  of  vocal 
honey  on  the  fragrant  silence.  Now  and  again  a  wren, 
one  of  the  most  exquisite  and  dainty  of  God's  mani- 
fold, manifest  fancies,  embroidered  the  air  with  even 
a  sweeter  and  more  silver  cadence.  Through  the  haze 
all  looked  brooding  and  mysterious,  the  mountains  lost 
in  purple  dreams. 

Lowood's  mind,  absorbed  into  this  sensuous  reverie, 
was  suddenly  caught  back  to  the  realities  by  the  quick, 
sharp  click  of  hoofs.  In  an  instant  he  recognised 


Lowood  Calls  on  Legh  75 

the  swift,  precise  trot  of  the  Duke's  horses.  He 
stopped,  and  stepping  to  the  hedge  plucked  a  spray 
of  blackberries,  so  giving  himself  opportunity  and  ex- 
cuse for  turning  his  head,  and  catching  a  glimpse  of 
the  beautiful  Mrs.  Beaumont.  It  was  but  a  glimpse, 
a  flash-light  bewilderment  of  curves  and  lovely  tints, 
of  red  and  white  and  amber,  and  the  glance  of  a  full 
eye.  Then  she  was  gone,  and  his  gaze  riveted  itself  to 
a  gleaming  amber  knot  upon  a  perfect  nape,  with  a 
white  plume  falling  gracefully  over  it.  He  had  time, 
too,  to  note  her  companion,  a  slender  dark  girl,  whose 
beauty,  if  such  she  had,  was  eclipsed  by  the  richer  and 
riper  charms  of  her  elder. 

Again,  as  before,  his  attention  was  fascinated  by  the 
human  problem  presented.  Marriage  has  become  so 
mere  a  convention,  one  with  which  love  has  so  seldom 
to  do,  that  it  has  ceased  to  surround  itself  with  roman- 
tic considerations.  But  illicit  ties,  being  outside  and  in 
violation  of  convention,  are  apt  to  suggest  an  impulse 
of  passion  so  strong  as  to  have  overridden  custom  and 
considerations  of  repute.  In  point  of  fact  such  ties 
are  as  conventional,  and  frequently  even  less  devoid  of 
passion,  than  are  marriages. 

But  the  suspicion  always  lingers.  And  do  as  he  will 
to  civilise  all  that  is  human  and  romantic  out  of  him, 
love  remains  still  the  one  rose  blooming  in  man's  wil- 
derness. Nelson  lives  less  in  our  hearts  and  memories 
for  the  mighty  battles  which  he  won  than  for  his  ro- 
mantic devotion  to  the  well-loved  Emma. 

With  that  shy  idealisation  of  woman  which  so  fre- 
quently keeps  men  bachelors,  she  being  an  illusive 
creature  of  the  imagination  rather  than  a  flesh-and- 
blood  person  to  be  acquired  by  conventional  methods, 
the  episode  of  the  Duke's  lady  had  gone  like  a  ferment 
to  Lowood's  brain. 

In  that  complex  enigma  —  the  heart  of  a  man  of  the 
world,  in  this  case  a  man  whose  rank  and  wealth  and 
freedom  from  material  anxieties  allowed  him  to  shape 


76  The  Whips  of  Time 

his  human  chapter  as  he  would,  giving  him  the  choice 
of  all  the  highest  privileges  material  life  offers  —  this 
man  had  chosen  love. 

Lowood  had  met  him  once  at  dinner  at  the  house  of 
a  distinguished  patient.  He  recalled  him  as  he  had 
seen  him  sitting  at  the  foot  of  the  table  beside  his 
hostess,  a  heavy,  red-faced,  almost  gross  person,  of  an 
arrogant  eye  and  morose  mien,  yet  with  an  occasional 
lightening  of  expression  and  a  smile  and  manner  of 
distinguished  graciousness,  as  though  beneath  his  bur- 
den of  boredom  there  lurked  one  softening  memory, 
one  green  spot  to  which  his  nature  turned. 

Lowood,  recalling  him,  placed  this  green  spot  at 
Moonbank,  that  casket  wherein  lay  his  jewel.  Albeit 
the  attachment  was  strong  enough,  so  report  said,  to 
have  kept  the  Duke  from  marrying,  it  is  probable  that 
it  was  of  a  less  romantic  and  chivalrous  character  than 
Lowood  supposed,  his  own  austere  life  having  kept  the 
sex-sense  in  him  fresh  and  unspoiled  as  in  a  young, 
enthusiastic  man.  Yet  there  was  to  eye  and  mind  the 
lovely  woman  cherished  as  a  jewel,  the  great  Duke 
worshipping  the  ground  beneath  her  feet. 

It  was  not  until  he  found  himself  before  the  door 
of  Hooton  Hoo  that  he  recalled  his  straying  thoughts 
from  their  new  field  of  absorption. 

Mr.  Legh,  the  servant  in  a  handsome  livery  in- 
formed him,  was  at  home.  Lowood,  admiring  his  fine 
silken-stockinged  calves  and  his  shoulders  made  impos- 
ing by  their  knots,  followed  him  along  a  distance  of 
oaken-floored  and  ceilinged  corridors,  and  richly  car- 
peted and  tapestried  rooms  and  ante-rooms.  Then  a 
door  was  flung  wide  and  immediately  a  glow  of  light 
and  colour,  and  a  murmur  of  talk  and  laughter  gave 
place  to  the  velvet  silence  of  his  going. 

He  found  himself  in  a  large  library,  rich  with  the 
stained-glass  windows  of  a  century  which  knew  and 
kept  the  secret  of  rich  colour.  A  glance  showed  him 
walls  lined  from  ceiling  to  floor  with  the  bindings 


Lowood  Calls  on  Legh  77 

of  books,  showed  him  a  gallery  running  round  the 
room  above,  with  smaller  windows  whence  light  fell 
illuminant  upon  thoughtful  bronze  and  marble  heads. 

Then  he  shook  hands  with  Legh,  a  tawny-haired 
giant  in  a  lounge  suit.  Forthwith  he  was  presented  to 
Miss  Kesteven,  and  to  Mrs.  George  Kesteven,  her  aunt, 
who  was  chaperoning  her.  Finally  to  Hestroyde, 
whose  dark  face  had  been  the  first  thing  he  had  seen  on 
entering. 

Inclination  drew  him  to  Joan,  whose  beaute  du 
diable  in  a  moment  engaged  his  susceptible  eye.  But 
duty  chained  him  to  Mrs.  Kesteven.  He  compromised 
by  standing  in  the  flesh  beside  the  latter,  while  his  sus- 
ceptible eye  dwelled  pleased  upon  the  former,  who  was 
pouring  tea  with  supple,  alluring  movements  of  body 
and  wrists. 

"  So  pleased  to  meet  you,  Dr.  Loder,"  Mrs.  Keste- 
ven told  him  graciously.  She  was  a  large,  smart 
woman  dressed  in  red,  with  a  restless,  shallow  expres- 
sion and  more  of  manner  than  of  intelligence. 

"  I  had  the  pleasure  of  reading  one  of  your  books 
once,  The  Dynamite  of  Nerves,  wasn't  it?  Intensely 
interesting,  but  rather  deep  for  an  outsider.  It  was 
such  a  very  clever  title.  Because  really,  you  know, 
nowadays  one's  nerves  do  behave  more  like  fireworks 
than  like  telegraph  wires.  I  believe  nerves  really  are 
only  telegraph  wires." 

Lowood  had  too  much  tact  to  tell  her  the  real  title 
of  his  book,  which  was  Nerve  Dynamics,  too  much  tact 
also  to  tell  her  that  its  clever  relation  to  explosives  was 
entirely  of  her  own  creation. 

"  I  am  so  glad  you  were  interested,"  he  mur- 
mured. 

"Oh,  I  was,  frightfully.  I  remember  some  pictures 
in  it  showing  facial  expressions.  I  found  out  from 
them  what  was  the  matter  with  several  of  my  friends ; 
really  some  of  the  pictures  would  have  done  for  por- 
traits. You  remember,  Joan,  how  I  told  you  that  Mrs. 


78  The  Whips  of  Time 

de  Lisle  was  hypochondriacal.  Dr.  Loder's  clever  book 
showed  that  when  all  the  lines  of  the  face  turn  down 
the  person  has  hypochondritis." 

"  Hypochondritis  "  was  a  new  word  to  Lowood.  It 
pleased  him.  He  reflected,  in  his  whimsical  fashion, 
that  a  disease  should  be  at  once  invented  to  fit  it. 

Joan  laughed,  her  ripe,  large  mouth  parting  pleas- 
ingly upon  her  white  teeth. 

"  It  sounds  a  beastly  sort  of  thing  to  have,"  she  said, 
with  an  engaging  shudder  of  her  shapely  shoulders. 
"Doesn't  it,  Bobby?" 

"  Perfectly  rotten,"  he  said  cheerfully.  "  Hope  it 
isn't  catchin'." 

"Is  it?"  Joan  asked,  glancing  into  the  visitor's 
eyes,  which  she  was  fully  aware  were  regarding  her 
with  flattering  interest. 

"  No,"  he  said.  He  looked  from  her  to  Hestroyde, 
who  stood  silent,  his  dark  gaze  and  his  tongue  appar- 
ently magnetised  by  her  unresting,  sinuous  movements. 
There  was  nothing  neurotic  about  them,  they  appeared 
rather  to  be  the  outcome  of  a  superabundant  vitality. 

"  I  hope  soon  to  return  your  call,  Mr.  Hestroyde," 
he  said.  "  It  was  good  of  you  to  take  pity  on  the 
bachelor  hermit  of  Homer  Cottage." 

"  Oh,  not  at  all,"  Hestroyde  said  conventionally, 
and  returned  to  his  observation  of  Joan,  and  to  the 
duty  of  passing  cups  and  cake,  to  which  she  had 
impressed  him. 

Mrs.  Kesteven  screamed. 

"  But  really,"  she  protested  shrilly,  in  her  skim-the- 
surface  fashion,  "  really  you're  not  a  bachelor,  Dr. 
Loder.  Oh,  what  a  shocking  person !  —  in  these  days 
when  men  are  so  scarce  they're  a  positive  luxury,  like 
orchids  or  dodoes,  you  know.  I  tell  Joan  she's  sensible 
to  settle  while  she  can.  Make  hay  while  the  sun  shines. 
Nowadays  a  girl's  summer  is  soon  over." 

"  But  nowadays,"  Joan  said  pertly,  "  women  have 
an  Indian  summer.  If  they  don't  marry  at  twenty  they 


Lowood  Calls  on  Legh  70 

marry  at  forty,  and  they  have  had  twenty  years  of  fun 
and  freedom  to  the  good." 

She  cast  an  arch  glance  at  Hestroyde.  He  was 
about  to  speak  but  Mrs.  Kesteven  was  before  him. 

"  But  we  have  changed  all  that ;  young  married 
women  between  twenty  and  forty  get  all  the  fun  and 
freedom  that  is  good  for  them,  without  any  anxiety 
at  the  end." 

"  So  far  as  I  have  seen,"  Lowood  said  gallantly, 
"  charming  women  need  feel  no  anxiety  at  any  time, 
because,"  he  added  drily,  "  with  all  due  respect  they 
are  always  in  a  minority,  and  like  pretty  women  there 
are  not  enough  of  them  to  go  round." 

Mrs.  Kesteven  fixed  him  with  her  shrewd  eyes. 

'  That's  theory,"  she  said.  "  Some  men  deliber- 
ately and  in  cold  blood  choose  disagreeable  and 
downright  objectionable  women,  just  as  some  persons 
prefer  cayenne  and  pickles  to  sweets." 

"  It's  true,"  he  agreed.  "  The  Skeleton  Lady  or  the 
Fat  Woman  of  a  show  is  always  married.  But  the 
average  man  is  still  sufficiently  human  to  prefer  some- 
thing pretty  and  charming." 

"  Bravo!  "  Legh  cried,  "  you  bet  we  do,  sir.  We're 
not  quite  asses.  I  say,  I  told  you  you'd  polish  up  our 
brains."  He  rubbed  his  hands  delightedly.  "  Now 
we're  talkinV 

But  Mrs.  Kesteven  had  had  enough  of  it.  Her  shal- 
low mind  craved  novelty. 

"  Do,  Dr.  Loder,"  she  said  earnestly,  "  tell  me  which 
you  consider  more  digestible  (I  love  to  get  medical 
opinion  without  paying  for  it),  muffins  or  crumpets." 

Lowood  was  at  a  loss. 

"  Really,"  he  said,  laughing,  "  I  haven't  considered 
it.  I  should  say  they  are  a  very  fair  match  in  indigesti- 
bility.  The  truth  is  most  things  are  digestible  to 
healthy  digestions,  most  things  indigestible  to  dys- 
peptics. And  faith  has  a  great  deal  to  do  with  it.  No 
doubt,  if  we  had  faith  enough,  we  could  digest  moun- 


80  The  Whips  of  Time 

tains.  Whereas  if  we  take  boiled  rice  in  fear  and 
trembling  we  set  our  digestive  organs  into  such  a  panic 
that  they  transform  our  boiled  rice  into  unboiled 
paving-stones.  The  best  way  is  to  take  anything  in 
reason  that  comes,  and  not  to  think  about  it." 

"  It's  certainly  the  nicest  way,"  Joan  said,  picking 
her  choice  out  of  a  big  box  of  chocolates  which  Hes- 
troyde  passed  her,  "  but  I'm  afraid  it's  the  way  to  grow 
fat." 

She  laughed  confidently,  in  the  serene  assurance  of 
her  lithe  and  slender  body,  as  youth  laughs  at  the 
notion  of  other  of  the  penalties  which  age  inflicts,  but 
of  which  time  has  not  yet  given  a  threat. 

Lowood  felt  himself  drawn  to  her.  With  her  fresh 
fair  complexion,  her  shining  green  eyes  darting  arrows 
of  coquettish  glances,  her  red  lips  and  dazzling  teeth, 
her  abundant,  well-dressed  flaxen  hair,  she  was  the 
embodiment  of  young  and  glowing  health.  And  health 
beyond  all  things  is  attractive  to  the  physician,  whose 
life  is  for  the  most  part  passed  in  the  gloomy  vale  of 
valetudinarianism. 

Knowing  that  he  knew,  he  could  not  repress  a  slight 
sense  of  antagonism  against  Hestroyde.  A  few  days 
before  he  had  been  going  over  the  newspaper  reports 
of  the  trial  of  Sarah  Munnings,  which,  at  the  time  of 
Hummerstone's  revelations,  he  had  carefully  cut  out 
and  pasted  into  a  folio.  The  story  showed  such  cal- 
lous wicked-heartedness,  cold-blooded  murder  for  the 
sake  of  wanton  murder,  the  daily  and  intimate  obser- 
vation with  cold  and  clever  eyes  (for  the  woman  had 
shown  an  amazing  amount  of  intelligence)  of  suffer- 
ings which  did  not  appear  to  have  stirred  in  her  one 
flash  of  pity.  Men,  women  and  children  had  been  her 
victims.  And  that  her  victims  had,  in  some  cases,  been 
attached  to  her  and  grateful  for  her  ministrations  and 
pretended  sympathy  had  not  deterred  her  a  whit.  A 
more  blood-curdling  story  and  one  which  left  less 
compassion  for  the  criminal  could  not  have  been  told. 


Lowood  Calls  on  Legh  81 

Lowood  was  revolted  by  the  thought  of  linking  this 
bright,  young,  well-bred  creature  to  the  son  of  such  a 
monster.  Yet  the  keen,  probing  eyes  he  kept  turning 
upon  the  young  man  found  in  his  appearance  nothing 
which  unfitted  him  to  be  her  mate.  Indeed,  where  she 
was  no  more  than  a  bright,  fresh,  wholesome  girl  of 
a  singularly  pleasing  manner,  Hestroyde  showed  fine- 
looking  even  to  the  point  of  distinction,  in  both  form 
and  face.  His  extreme  darkness  of  skin  was  the 
scientist's  sole  refuge. 

Persons  in  whom  there  is  an  admixture  of  black 
blood,  he  knew,  are  frequently  gifted  with  exceptional 
looks.  It  is  as  though  the  white  blood  illumining  the 
black  reveals  new  vital  hues  of  beauty,  as  a  lamp 
behind  it  will  show  the  rich  form  and  tints  of  an  other- 
wise sombre  stained  glass.  Yet  that  such  admixtures 
are  abnormal  and  evil,  the  product  combining  the  vices 
of  white  and  of  black  blood  without  the  virtues  of 
either,  has  been  established  beyond  doubt. 

So  Lowood,  despite  the  young  man's  handsome 
looks,  surmised  something  sinister  and  treacherous 
behind  them.  He  regretted  that  this  alien  element 
entered  in  to  confuse  his  psychological  problem. 
Otherwise,  he  had  no  doubt,  young  Munnings  would 
have  been  a  low-browed,  ordinary  criminal,  the  typical 
offspring  of  a  vicious  mother. 

Yet  even  while  he  pondered  his  eyes  sought  Legh. 
After  all,  despite  appearances,  this  clean-skinned 
young  sportsman,  the  very  picture  of  an  English 
country  gentleman,  might  be  Munnings.  Nature 
occasionally  plays  freaks,  and  the  young  man 
might  be  a  reversion  to  some  ancestral  type,  the  type 
of  some  sturdy  yeoman  from  whose  simple  virtues  the 
progenitors  of  the  murderess  had  diverted. 

In  the  end  he  shelved  the  problem.  Time,  and  the 
revelation  of  the  young  men's  characters,  would  doubt- 
less give  him  presently  some  ground  to  go  upon. 

While  he  reflected  in  the  base  of  mental  rumination, 


82  The  Whips  of  Time 

he  carried  on  a  falsetto  of  social  banalities  with  Mrs. 
Kesteven.  Also  he  kept  an  eye  on  the  younger  mem- 
bers of  the  party.  He  marked  the  rejected  lover's 
lugubrious  glances  at  the  fair  one,  his  successful  rival's 
triumphant  absorption  in  her,  and  her  own  guileful 
coquetting  with  both,  playing  her  charms  in  the  glow 
of  their  admiring  eyes. 

The  girl  is  a  flirt,  he  decided,  yet  he  did  not  condemn 
her  so  severely  as  he  should  have  done.  She  played 
her  fish  so  prettily  and  seemed  to  take  so  much  exu- 
berant' pleasure  in  the  sport  that  it  appeared  as  though 
she  could  not  for  the  life  of  her  refrain. 

Yet,  Lowood  thought,  noting  the  hot  jealousy  which 
occasionally  surged  into  Hestroyde's  face,  and  the 
gleamings  as  of  sudden  hope  in  Legh's,  there  will  be 
trouble  about  her  between  these  young  men  if  she  is 
not  careful. 

"  I  say,  Joan,"  Legh  exclaimed,  as  the  ladies  rose, 
"  where  in  the  world  is  Belshazzar  ?  I  didn't  see  him 
come  in  and  took  it  for  granted  he  was  in  one  of  his 
sulks  and  had  gone  to  his  favourite  corner  under  the 
settle.  I  never  knew  you  to  come  without  your  faith- 
ful henchman." 

Every  vestige  of  colour  left  her  face,  her  red  lips 
set  strongly.  Lowood  saw  her  cast  a  swift  and,  it 
seemed  to  him,  an  angry  glance  at  Hestroyde.  Then 
she  replied  in  a  toneless  voice : 

"  Belshazzar  has  been  misbehaving.  I  shall  have  to 
get  rid  of  him." 

Legh  laughed,  a  boyish,  rather  crude  laugh. 

"  When  the  world  comes  to  an  end,"  he  said.  "  We 
call  him  your  shadow.  What  has  the  old  ruffian  been 
doing?" 

"  Snapping." 

"  Belshazzar  snapping?    Bless  my  soul,  at  whom?  " 

"  Oh,  don't  bother,"  she  cried  sharply.  "  Do  let  us 
go.  We  shall  be  late  for  church." 

She  gave  her  hand  with  a  cold  abruptness  to  Hes- 


Lowood  Calls  on  Legh  8S 

troyde,  the  action  and  her  avoidant  eye  forbidding 
him  to  accompany  her  to  the  door  as  he  was  preparing 
to  do.  Legh  went,  leaving  Lowood  and  Hestroyde 
together. 

Lowood  saw  that  the  young  man  who  had  taken  no 
part  in  the  talk  about  that  which,  he  concluded,  must 
be  Miss  Kesteven's  dog,  was  now  very  pale,  and  that 
he  seemed  to  be  suffering  from  some  agitation. 

No  doubt  jealousy,  he  reflected.  If  that  young 
woman  doesn't  mind  what  she  is  about  there  will  be 
trouble. 

He  left  Hestroyde  to  get  over  his  agitation  by  him- 
self, and  began  to  examine  the  bookshelves,  some  rare 
bindings  upon  which  had  caught  his  eye.  Hestroyde, 
apparently  unaware  or  careless  of  his  presence,  stood 
staring  down  into  the  log  fire. 

So  soon  as  Legh  returned  Lowood  proposed  also  to 
take  his  leave. 

"  I,  too,  must  be  off,"  Hestroyde  said  quickly. 

It  was  obvious  that  there  was  some  embarrassment 
between  the  friends.  The  successful  lover  was  loth  to 
be  left  alone  with  his  defeated  rival. 

"  If  I  may,  Dr.  Lowood,"  he  added,  "  I  will  walk 
part  of  the  way  with  you  and  show  you  a  short  cut 
through  the  park." 

"  Why,  I'll  go  too,"  Legh  said ;  "  stretch  my  legs 
and  give  the  dogs  a  run.  Come,  dogs !  " 

Immediately  there  was  a  joyous  chorus.  Three 
large  forms,  which  had  been  lying  prone  before  the 
fire,  their  jaws  wedged  dismally  upon  their  forepaws 
and  their  minds,  no  doubt,  glowering  upon  the  problem 
of  why  three  honest,  well-intentioned  creatures  should 
be  compelled  to  practise  the  dull,  social  etiquette  of 
being  seen  and  not  heard,  had  leapt  with  a  simultane- 
ous bound  to  their  feet  and  were  giving  joyful 
tongue. 

"  Down,  dogs,  down !  "  Legh  commanded,  although 
he  was  as  pleased  as  they.  He  added,  with  as  much 


84  The  Whips  of  Time 

bitterness  as  was  possible  to  one  of  his  sanguine  tem- 
perament : 

"  There's  one  thing.  Whatever  happens  we've 
always  got  our  dogs  to  be  fond  of  us." 

But  the  first  breath  of  air  as  they  passed  into  the 
open  dispelled  his  bitterness  and  self-commiseration. 

"  He's  a  thoroughly  nice,  warm-hearted  youngster," 
Lowood  reflected,  as  the  young  man,  forgetting  his 
own  distresses,  explained  that  the  two  houses,  Hooton 
Hoo  and  The  Folly,  lay,  as  the  crow  flew,  back  to 
back  with  Mowbreck  Hall  and  Moonbank.  But  be- 
tween them  was  part  of  the  range  of  hills,  the  parks 
ascending  these  for  a  distance  and  then  merging  into 
the  wilderness  of  bracken  and  heather. 

"  But  there's  a  narrow  ravine  between  Moonbank 
and  The  Folly  which  brings  their  park  fences  within  a 
few  yards,  and  the  houses  within  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
of  one  another.  By  the  road  round  the  base  of  the  hill 
they're  six  miles  apart." 

"  In  other  ways,"  Hestroyde  put  in  with  quiet  irony, 
"  a  good  deal  further  apart  than  that." 

"  You  must  tell  me  about  this  beautiful  Mrs.  Beau- 
mont," Lowood  began,  when  the  conversation  was 
abruptly  changed  by  Legh  opening  a  small  postern  gate 
almost  concealed  by  a  mass  of  overhanging  ivy. 

"  Now  we  are  in  Hestroyde's  territory,"  he  said, 
smiling.  "  Once  upon  a  time  all  the  houses  were 
friends.  Now  the  gate  between  Mowbreck  and  Moon- 
bank  is  barricaded." 

"  Excluding  the  beautiful  frail  one."  Legh  laughed. 
"  It's  the  Moonbank  side  of  the  gate  which  has  been 
barred,  by  the  Duke's  orders.  He  allows  no  tres- 
passers on  his  domain." 

He  paused  and  threw  a  quizzical  glance  at  Lowood. 

"  Some  day,  perhaps,"  he  added,  "  I'll  tell  you  that 
story." 

Lowood  pricked  up  his  ears.  But  Hestroyde  mut- 
tered : 


Lowood  Calls  on  Legh  85 

"  By  George,  no,  Bob." 

"  Oh,  why  not?  "  Legh  persisted  good-humouredly. 
"  It's  a  good  story  and  Dr.  Lowood  won't  blab." 

Lowood  professed  not  to  hear  the  aside,  but  it  added 
piquancy  to  a  prospect. 

"  Hello !  "  Legh  exclaimed  suddenly,  "  where  in  the 
world  have  the  dogs  got  to  ?  " 

He  whistled  and  called,  called  and  whistled.  There 
was  no  response. 

"  You  two  go  on,"  he  said,  "  while  I  go  back.  The 
brutes  are  up  to  some  mischief  or  other." 

But  Lowood  and  Hestroyde,  having  no  better  way 
of  putting  in  time,  turned  back  with  him. 

"  Where  the  deuce  can  they  be?  "  their  master  said, 
as  no  sign  of  them  showed. 

Then  the  Gordon  setter  dashed  excitedly  out  from 
a  plantation,  his  tail  sweeping,  his  ears  tossing.  He 
gave  short  yaps  of  agitated  explanation.  Having 
bounded  nearly  up  to  them,  he  suddenly  turned  round, 
frisking  back  and  plainly  inviting  them  to  follow. 

"  There's  something  up,"  Legh  said.  "  Perhaps 
Ranger  has  come  to  grief.  If  there  is  any  possibility 
of  it  Ranger  always  comes  to  grief.  I  say,  you  chaps 
had  better  go  on,  hadn't  you  ?  " 

Hestroyde  now  showed  some  uneasiness. 

"  No,"  he  said  brusquely,  "  you  two  go  on.  I'll 
find  them." 

He  dropped  into  a  light  run,  his  lithe  figure  moving 
with  the  ease  and  swiftness  of  a  greyhound,  the  dog 
frisking  before  him.  Legh,  taking  infection,  also  ran. 
Soon  the  three  were  lost  to  sight.  Lowood  followed 
at  his  leisure,  led  by  the  excited  yelpings  of  the  dogs. 

He  came  up  with  them  soon,  Hestroyde  mortified, 
Legh  amazed,  both  staring  down  at  something  which 
the  dogs,  now  mute  with  triumph  in  their  prize  and 
in  their  perspicacity,  had  unearthed.  The  something 
was  the  limp  and  dismal  body  of  a  dead  bulldog,  his 
coat  earth-stained  and  sodden,  his  half-closed  eyes 


86  The  Whips  of  Time 

glazed  pitifully,  a  swollen,  earth-stained  tongue  pro- 
truding from  his  mouth.  A  small  cleft  in  the  broad 
chest  and  a  wide  wound  of  torn  flesh  and  clotted  blood 
in  the  back  showed,  the  one  where  a  bullet  had  entered, 
the  other  where  it  had  come  out. 

"  Belshazzar,  by  Jove !  Poor  old  chap,"  Legh  said, 
as  Lowood  joined  them.  "  What  on  earth  does  it 
mean?  " 

Lowood's  eyes  were  arrested  by  Hestroyde's  ex- 
pression. Shame,  anger  and  concealment  were  in  it. 
He  laughed  uneasily. 

"  Behold  the  culprit ! "  he  said,  forcing  levity. 
"  Belshazzar  bit  my  hand.  Belshazzar  had  to  be 
punished.  I'm  sorry.  But  when  bulldogs  take  to 
snapping  they  must  also  take  the  consequences." 

The  explanation  did  not  lessen  Legh's  amazement. 

"  But,  I  say,"  he  expostulated,  "  you  might  have 
given  the  poor  beast  another  chance.  He's  always 
been  such  a  jolly,  faithful  old  chap,  so  docile  and 
affectionate." 

A  little  spasm  twisted  his  lips  as  he  looked  down  at 
the  sodden,  ugly  mass  he  had  known  as  a  strong  and 
active  thing  with  a  trenchant,  honest  will,  a  trusty 
heart  and  a  fine  intelligence. 

The  dogs  began  now  to  be  ashamed  of  their  find. 
The  silence,  and  lack  of  commendation  for  which  they 
had  looked,  caused  them  to  doubt  their  discretion  in 
unearthing  it.  They  dropped  their  heads  and  stole 
guilty,  inquiring  glances  at  one  another,  and  at  the 
thing  they  perhaps  felt  they,  too,  must  one  day  come 
to. 

Then  Legh  gave  a  little  concerned  whistle. 

"  Jove!   what  will  Joan  say?    She  idolised  him." 

"  Joan  knows,"  Hestroyde  said  curtly.  There  were 
pride  and  temper  in  his  voice.  He  was  on  the  offen- 
sive against  blame. 

"  Joan  knows  ?  "  Legh  repeated  incredulously.  He 
was  about  to  say  more  when  Hestroyde  cut  him  short. 


Lowood  Calls  on  Legh  87 

"  If  you  two  will  go  on,"  he  said  coldly,  "  I  will  put 
Belshazzar  where  the  dogs  won't  find  him  again." 

Lowood  and  Legh  walked  on  in  silence.  Then  Legh 
said,  as  though  explaining  the  affair  to  himself: 

"  Hestroyde  was  afraid,  of  course,  for  Joan." 

"  No  doubt,"  Lowood  agreed. 

But  in  his  heart  he  reflected  it  was  more  probable 
that  Munnings  had  been  afraid  for  himself. 


CHAPTER   X 

A   HORSEWHIPPING 

LEGH  seemed  to  have  taken  a  liking  to  Lowood.  No 
doubt  too  he  was  suffering  from  the  twofold  distresses 
of  rejected  suitor  and  neglected  friend.  For  Hes- 
troyde,  ardently  in  love,  had  no  time  now  for  anyone 
save  Joan. 

Lowood  was  pleased  when,  a  few  evenings  later, 
just  as  he  had  lighted  up  a  pipe  and  was  settling  down 
to  a  solitary  evening  with  a  book,  Legh,  in  his  dinner 
suit,  came  in. 

"  If  you  can  put  up  with  me  for  an  hour  or  so,  sir," 
he  said  diffidently,  "  you'll  be  doing  a  poor  beggar  a 
good  turn.  Fact  is  I'm  deuced  hipped.  Had  a  reg- 
ular knockout  blow,  and  it  smarts." 

Lowood,  giving  him  a  cordial  welcome,  had  soon 
heard  the  story  of  his  love  and  of  his  failure. 

"  If  there  was  any  chance  of  there  being  two  such 
girls  in  the  world,"  Joan's  admirer  said  despondently, 
"  it  would  be  another  shop.  But  we've  known  one 
another  all  our  lives.  And  she's  just  clinkin'.  But, 
of  course,  I  needn't  tell  you,  you've  seen  her  yourself." 

Lowood  was  too  kind-hearted  to  tell  him  that  al- 
though he  had  seen  and  had  duly  admired  he  had  not 
seen  her  with  a  lover's  eyes. 

"  Oh,"  he  said  cheerfully,  "  there  are  still  some  nice 
girls  in  the  world.  Why  don't  you  get  away  for  a  bit  ? 
Wouldn't  you  forget  it  sooner  ?  " 

"  No.  I'll  stop  and  face  the  music.  It  would  be 
rather  rotten  to  turn  tail.  Besides,  I've  got  to  get  used 
to  it,  you  know,  and  I've  arranged  a  lot  of  shoots 


A  Horsewhipping  89 

for  this  and  next  month.  By  the  way,  you  shoot,  I 
suppose  ? " 

"  No,"  Lowood  said,  "  not  since  I  was  your  age." 
He  smiled  whimsically.  "  We  doctors  have  a  different 
but  an  equally  effective  method." 

The  young  man  smiled  too. 

"  Well,  whatever  some  of  you  may  do,  you  saved 
my  life,  I  know  that.  My  hand  trembled  and  my  sight 
was  as  dim  as  a  cat's." 

Presently  he  had  forgotten  his  woes,  and,  reminded 
by  Lowood,  was  telling  the  story  of  Moonbank. 

"  It  was  like  this,"  he  said,  with  a  laugh  and  a 
slightly  flushing  cheek.  "  It  was  four  years  ago,  Mark 
and  I  were  only  asses  of  undergrads.  We'd  seen  Mrs. 
Beaumont  driving  and  had  heard  all  about  her.  Our 
heads  were  fairly  turned.  You've  seen  her  —  isn't  she 
enough  to  turn  anybody's  head  ?  " 

"  Quite." 

"  Well,  then,  we'd  met  her  out  in  the  afternoon  and 
we  thought  —  You  know  that  smiling  look  some 
women  have  in  their  eyes.  It's  there  for  everyone. 
But  we  thought  in  this  case  it  was  there  for  us,  a  bit 
of  encouragement,  in  fact.  We  knew  she  must  find  it 
beastly  dull,  cooped  up  there  all  by  herself,  with  all  the 
women  looking  down  on  her  and  nobody  going  to  the 
house  except  the  Duke  occasionally.  And  when  young 
fools  first  learn  that  women  aren't  all  they  thought 
they  were,  they  go  to  the  other  extreme,  and  think  all 
women  are  tarred  with  the  same  brush." 

:<  Yes,"  Lowood  said,  watching  his  guest's  face, 
with  its  honest  diffidence  and  the  sanguine  candour 
which  bespoke  the  clean,  outdoor  life. 

"  Well,  that  evening  we'd  been  dining  with  old 
Tempest  and  he  had  plied  us  with  champagne.  And 
walking  home  the  moon  perhaps  got  into  our  heads. 
We  decided  to  go  and  serenade  Mrs.  Beaumont  or 
something  —  try  and  get  to  speak  to  her.  We  hadn't 
any  very  definite  plan.  Our  blood  was  up  and  we  ran 


90  The  Whips  of  Time 

most  of  the  way  —  through  the  park  and  in  by  the 
gate  I  mentioned.  The  Duke  had  it  barred  and  riveted 
a  week  afterwards.  Of  course  we  were  acting  like  a 
couple  of  bounders,  but  we  meant  it  only  in  a  spirit 
of  adventure. 

"  It  was  about  half-past  eleven  when  we  reached  the 
house.  It  was  all  lighted  up.  There  was  a  room  on 
the  second  floor,  a  room  with  a  balcony  and  large 
casement  windows  opening  on  it,  and  the  windows 
were  open.  The  curtains  were  only  half  drawn,  and 
we  could  see  flowers  and  shaded  lamps.  We  thought 
she  was  there. 

"  Mark  has  a  good  baritone  and  I  can  sing  a  bit. 
We  struck  up  a  duet.  I  tell  you  it  didn't  sound  half 
bad  in  the  stillness  of  the  night.  After  the  first  verse 
we  stopped  and  listened.  Nothing  happened.  We 
went  on  to  the  second.  Still  nothing  happened.  By 
this  time  perhaps  the  champagne  was  working.  We 
started  shinning  up  one  of  the  pillars  of  the  balcony, 
and  almost  before  we  knew  it  we  were  standing  in  the 
room." 

"  Well  ?  "  Lowood  said  with  a  catch  in  his  breath. 

"  Well,"  Legh  returned,  and  laughed  boyishly,  "  the 
Duke  was  there." 

"  The  deuce !  "  Lowood  commented. 

"  It  was  very  much  the  deuce,  I  can  tell  you.  I 
never  felt  such  a  fool  in  all  my  life,  nor  so  sober  as 
when  I  found  myself  face  to  face  with  him  sitting  up 
straight  in  his  chair  and  glaring  into  my  eyes.  I 
scarcely  saw  the  vision  even  —  and  she  was  a  vision, 
all  lace  and  silk  and  shining,  smiling  eyes  and  jewels, 
who  was  seated  on  a  little  chair  beside  him  with  her 
head  against  his  knee.  I  don't  think  she  would  have 
thought  of  it  herself,  but  the  Duke  got  up  with  a  grand 
air  and  set  another  chair  for  her  a  little  distance  off. 
Then  he  came  back  and  sat  glaring  at  us.  I  tell  you 
we  didn't  know  what  on  earth  to  say.  We  just  stood 
in  the  beautiful  room,  all  flowers  and  curtains  and 


A  Horsewhipping  91 

shaded  lamps,  we  stood  and  felt  like  a  couple  of  low- 
down  cads  caught  sneak-thieving. 

"  '  Well,  gentlemen  ?  '  the  Duke  said,  with  a  snarl  at 
the  end  of  his  voice.  Then,  as  we  still  didn't  speak, 
but  began  to  edge  back  to  the  window  we  had  come 
in  by: 

"  *  Well,  gentlemen  ?  '  he  said  in  a  louder  voice,  with 
a  louder  snarl  at  the  end  of  it,  which  held  us  like  a 
lasso.  His  large  red  face  got  purple.  '  I  am  waiting 
for  the  explanation  of  what,  without  an  explanation, 
appears  to  be  unwarrantable  intrusion  at  an  unwar- 
rantable time  of  night.' 

"  Then  Hestroyde  said  quietly : 

"  '  It  is  an  unwarrantable  intrusion,  sir.  We  can 
only  apologise  and  go.' 

"  '  Not  yet,  sir,'  the  Duke  rasped,  '  not  yet.'  He 
looked  at  Mrs.  Beaumont,  a  look  which  seemed  to  go 
through  her.  '  Was  your  visit  to  me  or  to  this  lady?  ' 
Then,  as  we  were  ashamed  to  speak,  '  Are  you  ac- 
quainted with  this  lady  ?  ' 

"  '  No,  sir,'  we  both  said  at  once. 

"  There  was  something  in  his  eye  which,  even  if  she 
had  been  our  most  intimate  friend,  would  have  made 
us  say  '  No.' 

"  '  Was  it  your  intention  to  force  your  acquaintance 
upon  her  uninvited  and  at  this  time  of  night?  No 
doubt,'  he  added  with  a  shrivelling  contempt,  '  you 
were  not  prepared  to  find  that  the  lady  had  somebody 
here  to  protect  her  from  your  ruffian  impudence.' 

"  I  could  stand  it  no  longer,  and  called  out : 

"  '  We're  not  such  blackguards,  sir.  We  lost  our 
heads,  but  we  are  not  altogether  blackguards.  The 
lady  is  so  beautiful,  we  lost  our  heads.'  ' 

"  I  think  the  best  thing  you  could  have  said  under 
the  circumstances,"  Lowood  commented. 

"  Well,  the  Duke  seemed  to  think  so.  His  face 
softened.  There  was  a  bit  of  a  smile  under  his  mous- 
tache. The  lady  herself  gave  a  little  laugh  like  run- 


92  The  Whips  of  Time 

ning  water.  The  Duke  rose  again  and  opened  a 
door. 

"  '  Leave  me,  Emmy/  he  said  in  a  low  voice,  '  to 
deal  with  this  pair  of  young  rascals.' 

"  She  swept  up  out  of  her  chair  in  her  laces  and 
silks.  She  cast  one  melting  and,  it  seemed,  pitying 
look  at  us,  and  turned  to  the  door.  Halfway  through 
she  looked  back  at  him  and  smiled.  Such  a  smile! 
What  a  face  she  has !  She  said  gently,  '  Jack,  don't 
be  too  harsh  with  them,  they're  only  boys.'  Then  he 
shut  the  door  after  her. 

"  He  drew  a  deep  breath.  He  stood  glowering  at 
us  for  a  moment.  Then  he  broke  out  into  the  most 
awful  language,  foul,  blasphemous,  horrible,  that  I 
have  ever  heard.  We  stood  and  took  it,  there  was 
nothing  else  to  do.  For  the  moment,  with  that  lovely 
creature  in  our  minds  and  our  impertinence  brought 
home  to  us,  we  felt  we  were  all  that  he  called  us. 
At  all  events  I  did.  But  at  last  I  could  stand  it  no 
longer. 

"  '  Look  here,  sir,'  I  said,  '  we're  not  all  that  or  all 
that  you  think  us.  We'd  taken  some  champagne  and 
we  lost  our  heads,  but  we're  not  such  hogs  as  to  have 
been  rude  to  any  lady.' 

"  He  calmed  down  a  bit  then. 

"  '  Prove  it,'  he  said.  He  opened  the  door.  He 
looked  back.  '  I  shall  expect  to  find  you  here  when  I 
return.' 

"  Of  course  we  stopped.  He  came  back  in  a  few 
minutes  with  something  under  his  coat.  Through  it 
all  he  remembered  that  he  was  a  gentleman.  He  pro- 
duced the  thing  from  inside  his  coat.  It  was  a  long 
horsewhip. 

"  '  Now,  then,  gentlemen,'  he  said,  '  let  us  test  the 
sincerity  of  your  apologies.  You  come  here  in  the 
dead  of  night  and  break  into  the  room  of  a  lady  — 
of  a  lady,'  he  thundered  a  second  time,  '  supposing  her 
to  be  without  protection.  You  expose  her  to  calumny, 


A  Horsewhipping  93 

to  misapprehension.'  (I  think  from  the  jealous  sparkle 
of  his  eye  that  he  was  considering  his  own  misappre- 
hension had  the  incident  been  told  to  him.)  '  Are  you 
prepared  to  take  your  punishment  ?  ' 

"  We  were.  Still  remembering  that  he  was  a  gen- 
tleman, and  knowing  that  the  thing  must  be  kept 
between  gentlemen,  he  closed  all  the  windows,  drew 
down  the  blinds  and  locked  the  doors. 

"  Hestroyde  said  suddenly : 

"  '  I  suppose  you  know  that  if  we  liked  my  friend 
and  I  could  murder  you.' 

"  Saxby  looked  him  up  and  down. 

"  '  Possibly,'  he  said,  '  but  I  don't  think  you  will.' 

"  Well,  I've  taken  some  swishing  at  Eton  under  old 
Blank,  but  'pon  my  word  that  was  mere  child's  play 
to  what  the  Duke  gave  us.  We  were  marked  for 
weeks.  When  he  had  finished  he  quietly  held  out  his 
hand. 

"  '  I  trust,  gentlemen,  that  you  admit  the  justice  of 
my  dealings.  On  my  part,  I  see  that  I  have  had  gen- 
tlemen to  deal  with,  and  I  ask  no  promises.' 

"  I  shook  hands  with  him.  I  was  sore  from  head 
to  foot  and  the  perspiration  ran  down  me  as  it  did 
down  the  Duke.  But  I  shook  hands  with  him,  I 
thought  he  was  in  the  right.  But  Hestroyde  wouldn't. 
I  saw  then  that  he  had  submitted  not  because  he 
thought  he'd  deserved  it,  but  because  he  was  too  proud 
to  seem  to  funk  it.  But  he  wouldn't  shake  hands.  He 
looked  the  Duke  straight  in  the  eye. 

"  '  No,'  he  said,  '  I'll  see  you  in  hell  first.' 

'  The  Duke  shrugged  his  shoulders.  Then  very 
courteously  he  opened  a  window  for  us,  and  we  went 
down  as  we  had  come  up;  only  the  descent,  for  very 
good  reasons,  was  much  more  painful.  Then,  as  I 
tell  you,  a  week  afterwards  the  gate  in  the  park  was 
barred  up.  I  don't  think  I  need  tell  you  that  was  our 
first  and  last  visit  to  Moonbank." 

"  It  was  an  adventure,"  Lowood  said.    He  had  been 


94  The  Whips  of  Time 

keenly  absorbed.  Legh  had  told  his  story  well,  it  made 
a  cinematograph  play  of  tense  emotions. 

"  Who  is  the  girl  I  see  driving  with  Mrs.  Beau- 
mont?" 

"  That  is  Miss  Wenlith,  her  niece.  She  lives  with 
her.  And  a  rotten  lonely  sort  of  life  it  must  be.  I 
don't  believe  they  ever  have  a  soul  to  visit  them.  And 
of  course  all  the  women  here  look  over  their  heads  as 
though  they  weren't  here.  The  poor  girl  doesn't  even 
ride  to  hounds,"  he  added  in  a  tone  of  deep  commis- 
eration. 

Lowood  smiled. 

"  Perhaps  that  is  less  of  a  deprivation  to  her  than  it 
would  be  to  you.  Now  I,  for  example,  although  I  am 
fond  of  riding,  should  be  bored  to  death  if,  instead 
of  following  my  own  inclination,  I  were  compelled  to 
follow  the  lead  of  a  fox." 

"  I  advise  you  not  to  say  that  down  here,  sir,"  Legh 
told  him  solicitously.  "  Far  better  give  out  that  you're 
an  atheist.  It  wouldn't  make  you  half  so  unpopular." 

"  I'll  try  to  be  discreet,"  Lowood  said,  amused. 
"  But  a  man  who  neither  hunts  nor  shoots,  and  seldom 
goes  to  church,  is  liable  to  be  regarded  with  suspicion 
in  the  country." 

"  Unless,  of  course,"  Legh  said  on  an  inspiration, 
"  unless  people  label  you  clever  or  —  or  eccentric.  If 
they  can  find  a  reason  for  you  not  doing  the  things 
they  do,  they  don't  mind.  But  if  they  can't  find  any 
reason  it  makes  them  begin  to  wonder  whether,  after 
all,  there  is  any  reason  why  they  should  do  them.  And 
people  hate  anything  that  unsettles  them.  It's  so 
much  easier  to  continue  to  go  the  way  you've  always 
gone." 

Lowood  smiled  at  his  philosophy. 

"  And  so,"  he  said,  "  conventionality  becomes  the 
grave  of  character.  The  very  essence  of  living  is  to 
develop  along  one's  own,  and  along  the  lines  of  some 
other  person's  requirements.  It's  the  same  with  our 


A  Horsewhipping  95 

physical  training  and  our  education.  Most  of  us  are 
born  with  weak  spots,  bodily  or  mental.  If  we  let 
Nature  have  its  way  and  don't  strain  the  nervous 
forces,  Nature  will  supply  all  the  surplus  force  she  can 
lay  hands  on  to  strengthening  our  weak  spots.  So  in 
education,  we  lump  everyone  together,  pass  all  through 
the  same  mill,  and  do  our  utmost  to  crush  our  individ- 
uality and  personal  aspirations,  which  are  the  expres- 
sion of  evolutionary  needs. 

"  For  example,  a  man's  most  pressing  evolutionary 
need  may  be  to  develop  his  artistic  faculties.  His 
father  says,  '  Rubbish !  There's  nothing  in  art  now- 
adays. You  must  go  into  the  office  and  learn  to  keep 
yourself.'  He  learns  to  keep  himself  at  the  sacrifice 
of  qualities  without  which  his  evolution  stops  short. 
It  is  just  the  same  as  though  his  father  said,  '  My  boy, 
it's  rough,  I  know,  but  it's  all  for  the  best.  I  must 
put  out  one  or  both  of  your  eyes,  because  it  has  been 
found  that  in  our  business  blind  men  do  the  best  work 
and  make  the  biggest  incomes.  John,  I  am  ready  for 
the  red-hot  knitting-needles.' ' 

"  Oh,  well,"  Legh  said  contemptuously,  "  I  must 
say  I  despise  those  artist  chaps  —  not  geniuses  of 
course  —  but  all  these  potterers  who  lounge  about  in 
velvet  coats  and  neck-ribbons,  and  look  at  pictures 
with  their  eyes  screwed  up.  They're  as  bad  as  poets. 
What  do  men  want  with  writing  poetry?  What  men 
want  is  blood  and  bone  and  no  deuced  nonsense  about 
'em." 

Lowood  laughed  at  his  cut-and-dried  notions. 

"  Men  and  their  wants,"  he  said,  "  are  as  diverse 
as  the  sands  of  the  sea.  And  one  day  we  shall  realise 
this  and  shall  so  reconstruct  our  system  that  the  pres- 
ervation of  personal  faculty  and  character,  and  not 
the  building  up  of  wealth,  will  be  the  be-all  and  end- 
all  of  existence." 

When,  shortly  afterwards,  the  young  man  departed, 
an  old  head  tied  up  in  a  shawl  was  thrust  warily  out 


96  The  Whips  of  Time 

of  a  window  and  his  departure  watched  with  inquisi- 
tive eyes. 

"  Young  Mr.  Legh  is  walking  down  the  garden 
path,  Ursula,"  was  reported  to  her  sister,  already  com- 
fortably in  bed ;  "  he's  wearing  dress-clothes  and  a 
fawn  overcoat.  I  could  see  them  plainly  in  the  hall 
light.  He  does  have  his  shirt-fronts  got  up  beautifully, 
it  shone  like  glass.  He  is  walking  down  the  garden 
path  with  him,  they've  got  their  heads  together  and 
are  walking  very  slowly.  It's  a  cloudy  night.  I 
shouldn't  wonder  if  it  rains  before  young  Mr.  Legh 
gets  home." 

"  And  serve  him  right,"  Miss  Ursula  retorted 
hoarsely  from  the  bed-clothes,  "  for  keeping  such 
company.  If  this  goes  on,  I  shall  speak  to  the  Vicar." 

"  What  shall  you  tell  him,  Ursula  ?  " 

"  Did  you  ever  know  me  at  a  loss  what  to  tell  any- 
body, Charlotte?" 

"  Well,  if  you  tell  him  he's  a  detective,  Ursula,  I 
shall  feel  it  my  duty  to  tell  him  he's  an  anarchist.  It's 
cold,  I  think  I'll  shut  the  window." 

"  On  no  account,  Charlotte,  until  you  have  seen  him 
come  back  decently  into  the  house.  I  will  have  no 
night  prowlings  at  Homer  Cottage." 

"  Of  course  not,  Ursula.  But  what  should  you  do 
if  he  didn't  come  back  —  say  till  three  o'clock  to- 
morrow morning?  " 

For  a  while  this  proved  a  poser.  Then  Miss  Ursula 
rose  to  it. 

"  I  should  immediately  arouse  the  neighbourhood," 
she  said  in  a  voice  so  terrible  that  Miss  Epithite,  who, 
despite  her  occasional  rebellions,  was  at  heart  timid 
and  afraid  of  her  sister,  protested  in  a  startled  whis- 
per: 

"  But  he  is  coming  back,  Ursula,  he  really  is. 
There's  no  need  to  put  ourselves  about.  There,  now, 
I  can  see  his  white  shirt-front.  He  dresses  for  dinner 
as  though  he  was  a  gentleman.  Now  he's  gone  in 


A  Horsewhipping  97 

and  shut  the  door.  So  I  shall  shut  the  window.  My 
feet  are  like  stones." 

But  she  waited  till  Ursula's  silence  consented.  A 
threat  so  alarming  as  that  of  arousing  the  neighbour- 
hood had  reduced  her  to  her  normal  docility.  Ursula, 
in  that  mood,  was  a  person  to  be  respected.  So  soon, 
however,  as  she  supposed  that  natural  drowsiness  had 
relaxed  her  bedfellow's  iron  will,  her  native  obstinacy 
gave  a  good-night  flicker. 

"  If  you  were  to  arouse  the  neighbourhood,  Ursula," 
she  said,  "  how  do  you  think  he'd  like  it  ?  He  might 
give  notice.  And  he  pays  us  five  guineas  a  week." 

Her  calculation  had  been  well  timed.  Ursula  was 
feeling  drowsy;  moreover,  having  read  of  it  as  a 
means  of  inducing  sleep,  she  had  repeated  her  prayers 
half  a  dozen  times  over  and  was  on  the  point  of  drop- 
ping off.  But  she  had  proved  before  the  efficacy  of 
Scriptural  quotation  in  stopping  a  disputant's  mouth. 

"  Charlotte,"  she  began  severely,  "  *  what  shall  it 
profit  a  man  —  ' 

"  But  it  couldn't  profit  anybody,  Ursula,  to  lose  a 
lodger  who  was  paying  five  guineas  a  week !  " 

Dead  silence  succeeded.  Charlotte  rubbed  her  bony 
hands  together.  For  the  second  time  that  week  she 
had  had  the  last  word. 


CHAPTER    XI 

A    NOTE 

LOWOOD  let  himself  loose  sometimes  in  the  autumnal 
fastnesses  of  Scrope-Denton  with  a  herbarium  beneath 
an  arm.  He  was  no  keen  botanist.  But  there  were 
certain  medicinal  specimens  in  which,  as  a  doctor,  he 
was  interested,  and  these  he  collected,  classified  and  set 
to  mummify  in  his  folio. 

Once  in  a  quiet  lane  he  had  come  across  a  girl,  also 
with  a  herbarium  beneath  an  arm,  peering  with  bent 
head  and  fixed  gaze  into  a  luxuriant  ditch.  Had  she 
been  nearer  to  Moonbank  some  flash  of  association 
would  have  informed  him  that  this  was  Miss  Wenlith, 
the  young  relative  who  lived  with  Mrs.  Beaumont. 
As  it  was  he  got  no  farther  than  a  puzzled  sense  that 
he  had  seen  her  before  but  was  unable  to  place  her. 

She  lifted  her  head  as  he  approached.  Their  looks 
met.  He  derived  an  impression  of  a  pale  and  sensitive 
face  lit  by  a  pair  of  luminous  eyes.  These  flashed  in 
a  comprehending  glance  to  some  specimens  he  was 
carrying  in  a  hand  and  thence  to  his  herbarium.  A 
second  time  her  eyes  met  his,  this  time  with  the  slight 
shade  of  interest  of  one  who  recognises  a  fellow- 
student. 

Then  she  moved  past  him  with  an  air  of  reserve, 
touched  perhaps  with  hauteur. 

Two  afternoons  later  the  Misses  Epithite  received 
the  most  serious  of  the  succession  of  shocks  which  had 
followed  upon  Lowood's  tenancy.  For  as  they  sat  in 
their  fenced-in  bit  of  orchard,  engaged  in  knitting,  in 


A  Note  dd 

quarrelling,  and  in  watching  for  further  derelictions 
on  the  part  of  their  tenant-aversion,  the  sound  of  car- 
riage wheels  was  heard  and  they  saw  above  the  tall 
yew  hedge  the  head  and  liveried  shoulders  of  the 
Duke's  coachman  and  footman.  Then  before  their 
outraged  eyes  the  head  and  shoulders  of  the  latter 
disappeared,  the  white  gate  opened  and  the  man  stalked 
up  the  drive  between  the  malcontent  peacocks.  The 
angle  of  the  house  now  deprived  them  of  further  vis- 
ion. But  a  half  minute  later  their  ears  felt  the  arro- 
gant sound  of  the  knocker  on  their  front  door,  in  a 
thunder  which  none  but  a  footman  belonging  to  a 
family  of  consequence  would  have  been  able  to  elicit 
from  their  modest  knocker,  this  having  had  all  of  its 
spirit  and  a  great  proportion  of  its  substance  long  since 
rubbed  away. 

To  their  straining  ears  there  came  the  following 
colloquy : 

"Does  Dr.  Lockwood  live  here?"  in  the  imperious 
tones  of  a  Duke's  servant  constrained  by  his  duties  to 
recognise  the  existence  of  untitled  beings. 

"  Dr.  Lowood  does,"  answered  the  unmoved  voice 
of  Lowood's  servant,  Vox,  with  whom  familiarity  had 
bred  contempt,  or  at  all  events  ease,  in  his  bearing 
toward  the  menials  of  rank. 

"  Will  you  give  him  this?  "  said  the  imperious  voice, 
a  shade  less  imperious  perhaps. 

"  I  will,  when  he  comes  in,"  Vox  returned  indiffer- 
ently, his  intonation  implying  that  he  should  not  put 
himself  about  in  the  slightest  degree  to  do  so. 

Then  the  Misses  Epithite,  straining  their  eyes,  saw 
the  liveried  back  go  down  the  drive,  saw  the  white  gate 
close  and  the  second  head  and  shoulders  climb  again 
into  place  beside  that  which  had  sat  in  immovable 
profile  full  in  their  gaze  during  the  whole  episode. 
There  was  a  sound  of  wheels  and  all  was  gone. 

Now  the  old  ladies  had  all  their  years  proclaimed 
their  principles  and  shielded  their  modesty  by  ignoring 


100  The  Whips  of  Time 

absolutely  the  existence  of  any  living  occupant  of 
Moonbank.  They  had  stared  into  space  when  the 
name  had  been  mentioned,  as  though  their  ears  had 
failed  or  had  refused  to  record  it.  Accordingly  they 
were  in  a  dilemma.  It  had  become  a  very  passion 
with  them  to  find  failings  in  the  man  whom  they  re- 
garded as  having  ruthlessly  evicted  them  from  house 
and  home.  And  if  you  make  a  point  of  picking  holes 
in  persons  the  habit  so  grows  that  nothing  will  content 
until  they  are  in  tatters.  Hitherto  Lowood  had  given 
them  no  more  than  a  loose  end  here  and  a  puckered 
thread  there  of  which  to  lay  hold.  If,  however,  as  it 
now  appeared,  Mrs.  Beaumont  could  be  traced  into 
the  pattern  of  his  failings  they  would  have  wherewithal 
to  tear  him  shred  from  shred.  But  to  do  this,  it  was 
first  necessary  .not  only  to  recognise  the  existence  of 
this  lady,  but  also  to  show  cognisance  of  her  character. 

It  was  a  struggle  between  delicacy  and  hatred.  But 
hatred,  being  the  more  robust  faculty,  won  the  day. 
One  waited  long  for  the  other  to  speak  first.  Char- 
lotte, bringing  her  sly  innocence  to  bear,  with  a  sense 
of  triumph  left  it  to  Ursula.  Let  her  now  maintain 
the  lead  she  had  usurped!  While  Ursula  hoped  that 
Charlotte,  from  her  standpoint  of  lesser  responsibility, 
would  introduce  the  subject.  Finally  realising  that 
Charlotte  had  entered  upon  her  role  of  obstinate  silence 
Ursula  gave  in. 

"  I  thought  I  heard  wheels,  Charlotte,"  she  said. 
"  And  wasn't  that  a  coachman's  head  above  the  hedge  ? 
You  should  see  better  than  I  as  you  wear  glasses." 

"  I  think  it  was  a  carriage,  Ursula,"  Charlotte  ad- 
mitted. 

"  Do  you  think  it  was  Dr.  Sanders's  carriage, 
Ursula?" 

"  I  think  it  must  have  been,  Charlotte.  Whose  else 
could  it  have  been  ?  " 

"  But  is  anybody  ill  ?  " 

"  Not  that  I  have  heard  of." 


A  Note  101 

"  Then  why  should  Dr.  Sanders's  carriage  stop  here 
if  there's  nobody  ill  here?  And  was  that  Dr.  Sanders 
who  walked  up  the  drive  ?  " 

"  It  didn't  look  much  like  him,  Ursula." 

"Did  it  look  at  all  like  him,  Charlotte?  Surely  it 
was  a  taller  man  than  Dr.  Sanders.  And  it  didn't 
sound  like  Dr.  Sanders's  voice." 

"  Oh,  I  think  it  did  a  little,  Ursula.  If  you  noticed 
it  was  rather  gruff.  And  I've  always  told  you  Dr. 
Sanders  had  too  gruff  a  voice  for  a  sick-room." 

Ursula  perceived  a  tedious  halt  and  parley  on  this 
well-threshed  subject  of  the  undue  gruff  ness  of  Dr. 
Sanders's  voice.  She  steered  away  from  it. 

"  I  thought  the  man  looked  like  a  footman  in  liv- 
ery," she  said. 

"  Perhaps  he  did,  Ursula.  But  whose  footman 
could  he  have  been?  He  didn't  look  like  young  Mr. 
Legh's,  nor  like  Mr.  Hestroyde's.  He  may,  of  course, 
have  been  Lady  Kesteven's.  Or  he  may  have  been 
Mrs.  Tempest's.  Or,  of  course,  Ursula,  he  may  even 
have  been  —  " 

Ursula  saw  that  unless  she  should  capitulate  this 
invincible  obstinacy  might  place  three  days'  delay  at 
least  between  her  and  the  joy  of  talking  over  Lowood's 
newest  role  of  viciousness. 

"  Charlotte,"  she  commanded  sternly,  "  I  forbid  you 
to  prevaricate.  You  know  perfectly  well  that  the  car- 
riage which  stopped  and  the  liveried  servant  were  — 
the  Duke  of  Saxby's." 

It  was  so  long  since  the  name  had  passed  her  lips, 
so  long  since  it  had  entered  Charlotte's  ears,  that  both 
ear  and  lip  may  be  said  to  have  staggered  at  its  men- 
tion. Nevertheless,  when  Charlotte  had  recovered 
from  the  shock  of  it  she  recovered  in  her  mood  of 
obstinacy. 

"  Why,  and  so  do  you  know  it,  Ursula,"  she  said 
incorrigibly,  "  since  you're  no  more  blind  than  I  am, 
although  you  don't  wear  glasses." 


102  The  Whips  of  Time 

There  was  another  long  pause.  Then  obstinacy 
once  more  triumphed. 

"  And  what  do  you  make  of  the  Duke's  carriage 
stopping  here  and  the  Duke's  man  leaving  a  note  for 
Him,  Charlotte?" 

For  the  space  of  thirty  seconds  Charlotte  remained 
mute.  Then  she  said,  with  a  blend  of  the  deepest 
humility  and  the  liveliest  astonishment: 

"Are  you  asking  me  what  I  think,  Ursula?"  as 
though  the  world  of  her  long  and  unjust  subjugation 
had  suddenly  tumbled  down  about  her  ears. 

Ursula  was  equal  to  her. 

"  No,  Charlotte,  I  am  not.  Your  opinion  is  not  of 
the  slightest  value  or  you  would  have  seen  at  a  glance 
that  for  Lowood  to  ask  that  infamous  woman  to  stop 
at  our  gate  was  not  only  a  premeditated  insult  to  us 
but  also  a  proof  of  his  shameless  character." 

"What  woman  do  you  mean,  Ursula?"  Charlotte 
asked  ingenuously.  "  I  saw  only  a  footman." 

"  But  you  knew  as  well  as  I  know  that  Mrs.  Beau- 
mont was  in  the  carriage." 

Charlotte,  having  rubbed  in  her  little  revenge,  be- 
came now  too  eager  to  discuss  their  tenant's  infamy 
to  parley  longer.  She  leaned  forward  eagerly,  her 
small  crab-apple  face  becoming  harder  and  ruddier  and 
perhaps  her  juices  more  sour  at  the  prospect. 

"  Ursula,"  she  said  breathlessly,  "  I'd  give  my  ears 
to  know  what  is  in  the  letter." 

"  Well,  you  won't  then,"  the  latter  retorted.  "  He'll 
destroy  it,  the  deceitful  wretch !  " 

"  If  he  doesn't  burn  it,  Ursula,  but  tears  it  only  into 
not  too  little  bits,  and  doesn't  mix  it  up  with  other 
little  bits  — 

"  He'll  burn  it,"  Ursula  prophesied  as  one  who 
knew  his  character  too  well,  "  and  before  we  can  turn 
round  we  shall  have  that  woman  sitting  in  our 
drawing-room." 

She  described  it  as  though  it  would  be  a  species  of 


A  Note  103 

sleight  of  hand.  Hey  presto !  here  goes  her  letter  into 
the  fire !  And  so  soon  as  the  smoke  of  its  burning  had 
cleared  away  Mrs.  Beaumont  would  be  seen  to  be 
seated  in  the  drawing-room  of  Homer  Cottage  with  all 
the  assurance  in  the  world. 

Here  now  I  will  leave  them,  in  order  to  rid  my 
reader  of  a  curiosity  which,  if  it  should  anyway  ap- 
proach to  theirs,  must  be  bordering  on  frenzy.  I  leave 
them  happily  employed.  The  incident  had  broken  a 
silence  which  had  been  a  ten  years'  martyrdom,  such 
as  only  a  person  consumed  with  curiosity  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood of  such  an  episode  as  that  of  Moonbank, 
and  yet  forbidden  to  speak  of  it,  can  suffer. 

When  Lowood  reached  home  an  hour  later  Vox 
followed  him  into  the  drawing-room  and  closed  the 
door  with  a  care  which  argued  that  he  had  some  ink- 
ling of  the  curiosity  seething  in  the  annex.  He  pro- 
duced from  his  pocket  a  pink  Court-shaped  envelope, 
with  a  large  emblazoned  ducal  coronet  in  a  corner  and 
a  strong  smell  of  white  rose  breathing  from  every  pore. 

"  A  note  for  you,  sir.  It  was  left  by  the  footman 
from  Moonbank.  The  carriage  with  two  ladies  in  it 
stood  waiting  at  the  gate,  sir." 

Lowood  took  the  note  with  a  bewildered  sense,  part 
ecstasy,  part  incredulity.  He  turned  it  about  and  ex- 
amined it  curiously.  The  strong  perfume  caused  him 
a  chill  of  disillusion.  Aphrodite  should  not  scent  her 
letters  like  a  fifth-rate  actress.  It  would  have  amused 
him  to  learn  that  Aphrodite  did  not  dare  to  use  her 
scented  notepaper  when  she  was  writing  to  the  Duke. 
Since  he  had  characterised  it,  in  his  brusque  fashion, 
as  a  "  filthy  habit,"  she  had  set  apart  a  little  desk, 
guiltless  of  sachets,  wherein  she  kept  paper  and  en- 
velopes destined  for  him.  And  be  it  said,  for  the  in- 
formation of  the  curious,  such  paper  and  envelopes 
bore  no  coronet.  For  the  Duke  was,  as  are  so  many 
of  his  set,  a  great  stickler  about  trifles. 

"  And  where,"  Lowood  asked,  suspecting  his  serv- 


104  The  Whips  of  Time 

ant  of  being  well  informed  upon  a  subject  which  also 
interested  his  master,  "  where  in  the  clouds  is  Moon- 
bank,  Vox?" 

Vox  sent  him  a  discreet  glance.  His  face  was  im- 
perturbable. 

"  Why,  sir,"  he  said  smoothly,  "  I'm  told  it  is  a 
house  not  far  from  here  and  one  of  the  Duke  of  Sax- 
by's  properties."  He  respectfully  withdrew. 

Lowood  remained  eyeing  the  pink  coroneted  envel- 
ope with  a  quizzical  smile.  He  studied  the  large, 
careless  handwriting,  "  Dr.  Lowood,  Homer  Cottage," 
with  some  attention.  Like  all  men  of  aesthetic  tem- 
perament he  found  strong  perfumes  disagreeable.  Ac- 
cordingly he  held  it  at  a  little  distance.  But  he  held 
it  with  a  sort  of  tenderness. 

"  Here,"  he  mused  aloud,  "  is  a  letter  from  perhaps 
the  loveliest  woman  in  the  world.  Now  what  in  the 
world  can  perhaps  the  loveliest  woman  in  it  have  to 
say  to  me?  " 

Having  indulged  his  fancy  and  exercised  his  curi- 
osity he  set  about  opening  it.  And  being  a  bachelor 
of  precise  habits  he  opened  it  with  a  little  silver  letter- 
cutter,  which  had  been  a  present  from  a  grateful  pa- 
tient, and  which  he  carried  always  in  a  vest  pocket, 
thereby  incurring,  according  to  the  superstitious,  the 
danger  of  cutting  all  the  friendships  of  his  correspond- 
ents. Fanciful  persons  pass  their  lives  in  conjuring 
roseate  hues  which  never  were  on  land  or  sea  but  only 
in  their  realm  of  fancy.  Then  when  the  hues  fade  into 
the  drab  tints  of  fact  they  ask  why,  if  born,  they  were 
born  to  disappointment. 

A  more  commonplace,  uninspiring  note  than  this 
from  the  loveliest  woman  in  the  world  could  scarcely 
have  been  penned.  For  the  loveliest  woman  in  the 
world  wrote  a  large,  untidy  hand,  the  letters  ill  and 
loosely  formed,  the  lines  irregular  and  dancing  up  to 
the  right-hand  corner  of  the  scented  paper.  The  paper 
bore  two  blots,  one  large,  with  a  few  careless  scratches 


A  Note  105 

across  it  which  showed  that  the  writer  had  remembered 
her  duty  only  to  forget  it  before  it  was  completed,  the 
other  small  enough,  the  writer  had  appeared  to  think, 
to  be  regarded  as  a  venial  offence. 

She  presented  her  compliments  to  Dr.  Lowood,  and 
as  he  was  a  doctor,  as  she  had  been  told,  she  thought 
he  would  know  botany.  And  her  niece,  Miss  Alma 
Wenlith,  was  devoted  to  botany.  So  if  Dr.  Lowood 
could  make  it  convenient,  as  his  time  was  not  taken 
up  by  practising,  to  kindly  give  her  niece  some  lessons 
in  botany,  she  and  Miss  Wenlith  would  be  very  grate- 
ful. Mrs.  Beaumont  trusted  that  Dr.  Lowood  would 
not  feel  offended  at  Mrs.  Beaumont's  perhaps  unusual 
request,  and  also  that  he  would  allow  her  to  offer  him 
some  remuneration  for  his  kind  services. 

Lowood,  reading  the  letter  from  sundry  standpoints, 
was  a  little  nettled.  In  the  world  he  had  abandoned,  the 
world  of  medicine,  he  had  been  for  the  comparatively 
brief  period  of  his  transit  something  of  a  shining 
light.  And  unaccustomed  as  he  was  to  take  conven- 
tional views  of  life,  he  could  not  help  seeing  some- 
thing of  an  enormity  in  this  proposal  that  he  should 
depart  from  his  orbit  to  teach  botany  to  the  niece  of 
a  lady  in  Mrs.  Beaumont's  equivocal  position.  Apart 
from  the  conventions,  however,  the  human  standpoint 
showed  him  the  lady  of  the  equivocal  position  as  one 
of  the  finest  masterpieces  Nature  had  achieved  in  flesh 
and  blood.  Moreover,  there  was  the  glamour  of  the 
Duke's  romantic  attachment  to  her.  After  all,  who 
was  he,  plain  Dr.  Lowood,  that  he  should  not  be  proud 
to  obey  the  behests  of  a  little  white  hand  which  had 
been  immortalised  in  marble  by  a  great  dead  artist, 
and  which  in  the  flesh  was  the  only  power  the  head 
of  one  of  England's  greatest  houses  recognised. 

The  faults  of  her  letter,  and  her  obvious  weakness 
in  spelling  (for  she  had  certainly  first  written  "re- 
muneration "  with  two  n's,  subsequently  drawing  a 
careless  pen  through  the  superfluous  one),  lowered 


106  The  Whips  of  Time 

the  altitude  to  which  his  sentiment  had  lifted  her,  yet 
instead  of  diminishing,  these  things  rather  increased 
his  palpitant  interest  by  bringing  her  nearer  to  his  own 
modest  plane. 

He  smiled  whimsically  when,  on  sitting  down  to 
reply  to  her,  he  found  himself  instinctively  replacing 
the  old  nib  in  his  pen  by  a  new  one,  and  opening  a 
fresh  packet  of  notepaper.  He  replied  briefly  that  in 
answer  to  Mrs.  Beaumont's  note  Dr.  James  Lowood 
would  give  himself  the  pleasure  of  calling  upon  her  the 
following  morning. 

That  night  he  dreamed  that  on  being  ushered  into 
her  presence  the  Duke  stood  before  her,  horsewhip  in 
hand,  and  administered  to  him  a  thrashing  from  which 
he  awoke  with  pains  in  every  limb. 


CHAPTER    XII 

MRS.    BEAUMONT    OF    MOONBANK 

HOWEVER,  when  on  the  following  morning  he 
presented  himself  at  Moonbank,  no  such  dramatic 
development  awaited  him. 

He  gazed  about  him  with  the  keenest  interest,  as  a 
gorgeous  footman  preceded  him  along  a  spacious  cor- 
ridor, of  which  the  walls  and  ceilings  sprawled  with 
Rubens's  frescoes,  chastened  by  clean  dadoes  of  hot- 
house plants.  He  was  shown  into  a  small  boudoir  of 
which  all  that  in  most  rooms  is  composed  of  wood  was 
here  composed  of  silver.  The  beautiful  mantelpiece 
was  wrought  in  this  beautiful  metal,  the  fender  and 
parts  of  the  fireirons  were  also  of  silver.  The  white- 
tiled  fireplace  showed  a  bevy  of  pink  Cupids,  who,  in 
the  nudity  common  to  Cupids,  must  have  been  glad  of 
the  artificial  warmth  of  the  domestic  hearth.  Round 
the  room  ran  a  silver  cornice  of  embossed  design,  and 
the  chairs  and  tables,  made  of  some  dainty  wood  he 
did  not  know,  were  richly  encrusted  with  silver.  Aqua- 
relles of  delicate  tints  harmonised  charmingly  with  the 
silken  upholsteries,  which  were  of  a  hue  he  believed 
to  be  green  although  he  suspected  it  might  be  blue. 
The  ovoid  windows  were  framed  in  silver.  They 
showed  enchanting  views  of  hills  and  sky,  which  thus 
had  an  appearance  of  silver-framed  pictures. 

The  door  opened  and  the  loveliest  woman  in  the 
world  stood  smiling  before  him.  He  required  all  the 
presence  of  mind  at  his  command  to  prevent  him  from 
breaking  into  barbarian  exclamations.  Surely  no 
woman  had  ever  been  so  beautiful!  She  wore  a  white 


108  The  Whips  of  Time 

gown  of  silk  simply  made,  or  made  with  such  guile  as 
to  appear  simple,  or  perhaps  indeed  simple  and  only 
embellished  by  the  lovely  lines  and  curvings  of  the 
perfect  shape  round  which  it  flowed. 

She  must  at  this  time  have  been  forty,  yet  she  had 
preserved  the  graceful,  albeit  well-rounded,  lines  of 
her  youth.  One  might  indeed  have  thought  that  age, 
the  most  ruthless  of  beauty's  foes,  had  in  her  case 
stayed  his  hand,  reverencing  the  miracle. 

She  extended  a  beautiful  hand,  a  thing  so  exquisite 
that  the  jewels  flashing  from  it  might  well  have  been 
a  natural  product  of  the  exquisite  flesh.  She  smiled  — 
a  revelation  of  pearls  in  a  rose-heart. 

"  Good-morning,  Dr.  Lowood,"  she  said  in  a  voice 
soft  and  tranquil  and  intimate  as  the  cooing  of  doves. 

He  bent  over  the  hand.  His  name  uttered  in  that 
voice  was  like  a  silver  privilege. 

"  It  is  so  kind  of  you  to  come,"  she  said,  a  common- 
place, but  one  which  her  voice  so  beautified  that  he  was 
mortified  to  find  no  greater  words  in  which  to  answer 
than  a  murmured : 

"  Oh,  not  at  all.    I  am  sure  I  am  delighted." 

Then  he  saw  that  the  goddess  was  attended  by  a 
satellite,  the  pale  girl  with  luminous  eyes  whom  he  had 
previously  met  in  the  lane. 

He  discovered  later  that  she,  too,  had  a  charm  and 
a  beauty  of  her  own,  but  they  were  delicate  and  elusive 
—  things  less  of  the  flesh  than  of  the  mind  and  nature, 
and  on  first  acquaintance  quite  eclipsed  by  the  luxuriant 
flesh  beside  her. 

"  This  is  my  niece,  Miss  Wenlith,"  Mrs.  Beaumont 
said,  presenting  her.  "  She  dotes  on  botany.  She 
would  love  to  have  somebody  to  teach  her." 

"Oh,  will  you,  please?"  the  girl  begged  wistfully, 
her  luminous  eyes  alight. 

"  I  shall  be  delighted,"  he  said,  although,  if  the 
truth  must  be  told,  he  had  come  with  the  full  intention 
of  declining  a  task  for  which  he  felt  himself  to  be  un- 


Mrs.  Beaumont  of  Moonbank          109 

qualified.  "  That  is,"  he  corrected  himself,  "  I  shall 
be  delighted  to  teach  you  as  much  as  I  know,  which 
I  must  tell  you  is  very  little." 

"  But  if  you  will  help  me  to  begin,"  she  appealed. 
"  I  have  only  just  looked  into  the  subject.  I  am  so 
ignorant.  I  find  the  long  Latin  names  and  scientific 
words  so  confusing.  If  you  will  help  me  —  " 

"  With  pleasure." 

The  luminous  eyes  brimmed  over  with  light.  "  I 
am  so  very  grateful.  There  is  so  little  to  do  here.  I 
have  read  and  read  till  my  brain  is  in  a  whirl.  I  feel 
as  though  it  needs  something  to  steady  it,  something  to 
grapple  with,  something  difficult  and  real." 

"  Alma  gets  so  many  ideas,"  her  aunt  said,  with  a 
sort  of  puzzled  plaintiveness,  and  as  though  her  niece 
had  been  subject  to  nettle-rash.  "  I  tell  her  she  reads 
too  much  and  thinks  too  much.  It  makes  her  pale  and 
nervous.  Perhaps  a  tonic  would  really  do  her  more 
good  than  botany,  Dr.  Lowood." 

She  looked  at  her  with  a  good-humoured  concern. 
Lowood,  on  his  part,  felt  interested  in  the  girl.  Psy- 
chologist as  he  was,  his  sympathy  was  roused  by  a 
species  of  mental  forlornness  her  words  indicated.  In 
a  moment  he  guessed  a  great  gulf  between  the  two 
women.  Here  was  a  rarely  beautiful  body  allied  to  an 
ordinary  mind.  For  the  beauty's  few  words  had  re- 
vealed a  literalness  of  speech  and  a  mental  limitation 
which  made  him  think  of  an  exquisite  creature  pastur- 
ing pleasantly  within  a  high-hedged  paddock,  serene, 
well-pleased,  and  quite  content  without  even  a  glance 
over  to  see  what  might  lie  upon  the  other  side. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  girl's  slight,  nervous  frame 
appeared  to  be  thrilling  with  eager  desire  for  knowl- 
edge and  life.  She  was  a  creature  which  would  neg- 
lect its  pleasant  pasture  in  order  to  be  forever  craning 
its  head  to  discover  that  which  lay  beyond.  To  one 
of  his  temperament  this  mood  of  eager  enthusiasm  was 
less  pleasing  than  the  tranquil  content  and  rich  calm 


110  The  Whips  of  Time 

of  her  relative.  Such  tranquil  content  and  rich  calm, 
he  had  always  told  himself,  were  the  normal  and 
delectable  ideal  of  woman.  The  modern  fretting  fever 
to  be  forever  looking  over  into  and  annexing  other 
paddocks  was  the  source,  he  thought,  of  all  our  modern 
ills. 

Mrs.  Beaumont  dismissed  her  niece  and  her  niece's 
concerns.  Lowood  had  consented  to  treat  her  mental 
ailment. 

"  Dr.  Lowood,"  she  pleaded,  her  beautiful  mouth 
wreathing  with  smiles,  "  do  now  sit  down  and  tell  us 
the  news.  We  have  just  returned  from  Italy,  and  al- 
though I  am  fond  of  Scrope-Denton  it  is  not  very 
lively." 

She  shrugged  a  shoulder,  which  showed  through  its 
silken  covering  as  a  rounded  perfection.  Repose  and 
happiness  surrounded  her  like  plump  and  smiling 
cherubs.  Her  tranquil  luxuriance  seemed  typical  of 
motherhood.  Lowood  reflected  on  the  pity  of  it  that 
she  was  not  in  truth  the  mother  of  beautiful  children. 
Her  case  pointed  a  moral  which  his  professional  ex- 
perience had  frequently  impressed  upon  him,  that  the 
world  is  fast  losing  its  charm  and  physical  perfection 
because  by  far  the  greater  portion  of  its  charm  and 
physical  perfection  are  submerged  into  that  under 
world,  the  frail  half-world,  which  is  childless. 

Invited  to  gossip  he  seated  himself  in  one  of  the 
silver-encrusted  chairs. 

"  I  am  a  newcomer,"  he  said.  "  I  know  but  little  of 
the  place  or  its  doings.  For  the  present  I  am  amusing 
myself  by  making  the  acquaintance  of  its  woods  and 
mountains." 

"  But  I  suppose  people  have  called  upon  you,"  Mrs. 
Beaumont  said  with  a  little  envious  avidity. 

"  Mr.  Legh  of  Hooton  Hoo  and  Mr.  Hestroyde  of 
Mowbreck  have  done  so." 

He  thought  a  wavelet  of  remembrance  rippled  the 
shining  eyes. 


Mrs.  Beaumont  of  Moonbank          111 

"  Mr.  Legh  of  Hooton  Hoo  is  the  handsome  Indian- 
looking  young  man,  isn't  he  ?  " 

"  No,"  he  said,  "  that  is  Hestroyde.  Legh  is  the 
fair  one." 

"  Then  it  is  Mr.  Hestroyde  who  is  just  engaged  to 
Miss  Kesteven  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Do  you  consider  her  good-looking  ?  " 

"  Good-looking,"  Lowood  said.  In  the  presence  of 
this  perfect  beauty  he  could  not  call  her  more. 

The  perfect  beauty  seemed  to  understand.  She  gave 
a  little  coo  of  pleasure.  She  was  accustomed  to  such 
tribute  and  only  observed  it  when  it  was  lacking. 

"  Perhaps  she  is  clever,"  she  said  reflectively,  as 
though  seeking  about  in  her  mind  for  some  reason 
sufficient  to  urge  a  man  to  engage  himself  to  mere  good 
looks. 

"  She  is  bright  and  amusing,  and  I  should  say 
certainly  clever,"  Lowood  replied. 

Just  a  little  glint  darkened  the  eyes.  Even  the 
loveliest  woman  in  the  world  is  not  pleased  to  hear 
another  woman  praised. 

"  And  she  is,  of  course,  an  heiress,"  she  said,  with- 
out bitterness  or  cynicism,  but  merely  as  a  statement 
of  fact. 

Miss  Wenlith  broke  in. 

"  I  suppose  the  real  reason  Mr.  Hestroyde  has  asked 
her  to  marry  him,  Auntie  Emmy,"  she  said,  with 
an  ironic  inflection,  "  is  because  he  is  in  love  with 
her." 

"  Yes,  dear,  I  suppose  so,"  her  aunt  assented  placidly. 
"  I  was  wondering  why." 

"  Perhaps  she  is  his  other  soul,"  the  niece  submitted, 
still  ironically. 

"  Perhaps  so,"  Mrs.  Beaumont  said.  But  Lowood 
saw  that  the  saying  was  no  more  than  a  phrase  to  her. 

"  Her  complexion  and  figure  are  certainly  good," 
she  added  with  conviction. 


112  The  Whips  of  Time 

She  turned  back  to  Lowood.  In  the  placid  paddock 
of  her  mind  she  was  content  to  chew  the  cud  of  one 
idea  without  undue  haste  to  find  another,  perhaps  with- 
out great  facility  for  finding  others. 

"  And  when  are  they  to  be  married  ?  " 

"  I  believe  there  is  no  date  fixed.  From  what  I  see 
of  them  I  should  say  the  young  couple  have  to  get 
through  a  good  deal  of  stormy  weather  before  they 
come  into  haven." 

At  this  scrap  of  personal  gossip  the  beautiful  face 
became  tinctured  with  pleasure;  a  curiosity  which 
seemed  adorably  childlike  flashed  into  her  eyes. 

"  Oh,  do  they  quarrel,  then  ?  "  she  asked.  "  What- 
ever about?  " 

"I  don't  know  that  they  quarrel,  they  •  seem  very 
devoted.  But  I  imagine  both  have  difficult  tempera- 
ments, and  won't  easily  settle  into  harness." 

"  Joan  told  me  —  "  Miss  Wenlith  began,  and  caught 
herself  up  sharply. 

Lowood  turned  to  her  in  surprise.  He  saw  that  her 
face  was  pink,  her  expression  dismayed,  as  of  one  who 
had  slipped  into  an  indiscretion. 

"  You  know  Miss  Kesteven  then  ?  " 

Her  eyes  dropped.  She  did  not  answer.  Mrs. 
Beaumont  explained,  in  a  constrained  voice: 

"  Miss  Kesteven  and  Alma  met  —  accidentally. 
They  just  speak  when  they  meet."  He  heard  her 
breath  catch  in  her  throat.  Her  lovely  bosom  rose  and 
fell  to  some  quickened  emotion.  "  We  see  very  little 
of  the  people  here." 

"  You  are  like  me,  no  doubt,"  Lowood  told  her. 
"  You  do  not  perhaps  care  for  sport.  And  the  only 
way  to  see  anything  of  the  people  here  is  in  the 
hunting-field,  or  at  the  otter-pools,  or  in  the  stables 
and  kennels." 

Her  long  lashes  rested  for  a  moment  with  a  ravish- 
ing embarrassment  upon  her  peach  cheek.  Then  she 
swept  up  her  eyes  and  met  his  serenely. 


Mrs.  Beaumont  of  Moonbank          11B 

"  Yes,"  she  said.  "  I  do  not  ride  at  all.  And  Alma 
cares  little  about  it." 

It  was  long  before  Lowood  could  make  up  his  mind 
to  leave.  While  his  reason  told  him  that  his  time  was 
up,  his  senses  were  so  hypnotised  by  the  banquet  of 
beauty  on  which  he  was  feasting  that  he  sat  like  one 
glued  to  the  silver  chair,  his  eyes  riveted  upon  his 
hostess.  I  will  wait  one  minute  longer,  he  kept  telling 
himself,  just  to  get  her  face  again  at  that  beautiful 
angle  with  her  throat.  Was  there  ever  such  a  throat? 
And  then  by  the  time  he  had  charmed  his  artistic  sense 
once  more  with  the  face  at  that  angle,  there  had  ap- 
peared some  other  pose,  without  seeing  which  again  he 
could  not  tear  himself  away.  And  her  rich,  low  voice, 
her  cooing  laughter,  the  perfume  she  breathed,  the 
way  in  which  her  amber  hair  dropped  like  a  fine  gold 
curtain  over  her  temples,  about  her  ears,  and  fell  into 
burnished  rings  upon  her  neck,  bewitched  him.  His 
austere  life  had  lifted  his  senses  to  the  mental  plane, 
where  they  had  become  as  it  were  mere  stained-glass 
plates  through  which  his  mind  looked,  enriched  and 
warmed.  And  he  was  able  to  see  her  as  he  might  have 
seen  another  lovely  work  of  art,  in  another  man's 
gallery,  without  coveting,  but  with  only  grateful  pleas- 
ure for  the  boon  of  seeing.  He  had  long  resigned 
himself  to  the  fate  of  an  onlooker  rather  than  a 
partaker  of  life. 

At  last,  by  a  valiant  effort,  he  rose  to  go.  During 
the  whole  of  his  visit  she  had  uttered  no  more  than  the 
veriest  commonplaces.  But  the  substance  of  what  she 
had  said  was  but  a  common  thread  on  which  were 
strung  pearls  and  other  gems,  so  beautiful  her  voice, 
her  mouth,  and  the  ravishing  creases  and  dimples  the 
muscles  of  articulation  set  rippling  about  it.  Unlike 
the  women  of  her  class  she  employed  no  arts  or  arti- 
fices. Serenely  confident  in  her  charms,  she  made  no 
fatiguing  efforts  to  charm.  Unlike  the  women  of  her 
class,  such  emotions  as  she  possessed  were  centred  in 


114  The  Whips  of  Time 

one  man.  And  this,  beyond  all  other  things,  gives  to 
a  woman  her  most  exquisite  poise. 

"  But,  Dr.  Lowood,"  she  urged  timidly,  "  you  have 
not  told  us  —  " 

His  tact  interpreted  her  pause. 

"  It  is  unnecessary,"  he  said,  "  to  tell  you  what  a 
great  pleasure  it  will  be  to  me  to  give  Miss  Wenlith 
my  poor  assistance  in  her  studies." 

Women  are  not  beautiful  for  nothing.  She  did  not 
awkwardly  detract  from  his  gift  by  insisting  upon  that 
remuneration  which  she  had  spelled  with  two  n's.  And 
what  were  spelling  or  speech  to  the  lovely  gratitude 
her  eyes  looked? 

"  How  more  than  kind  you  are,"  his  prospective  pupil 
said  gratefully.  He  went  out  with  the  sense  of  a 
man  overburdened  with  benefits.  He  was  one  of  those 
persons  who  derive  more  pleasure  from  giving  than 
from  receiving. 

As  he  went  down  the  marble  steps  his  pleasant  sim- 
mer of  sentiments  received  a  shock.  For  he  came  face 
to  face  with  Joan  Kesteven  tripping  lightly  up  them, 
with  an  air  of  doing  an  accustomed  thing.  She  was 
dressed  as  though  for  motoring.  He  would  not  have 
recognised  her,  muffled  as  her  head  and  face  were  in  a 
hood  and  thick  veil,  had  not  a  gust  of  wind  suddenly 
blown  aside  the  veil  and  shown  her  face  to  him. 

He  found  just  enough  presence  of  mind  to  lift  his 
hat  and  say,  "  How  do  you  do?  " 

"How  do,  Dr.  Lowood?"  she  returned  lightly. 
But  her  face  showed  some  dismay  as  she  passed 
on. 

A  minute  later  he  heard  a  step  behind  him. 

"Dr.  Lowood!" 

He  turned  and  looked  into  her  half  laughing,  yet 
discomfited,  face.  There  was  a  little  pause.  Then  she 
said,  rather  brusquely,  "  Is  anybody  ill  ?  Or  are  you 
a  friend  of  Mrs.  Beaumont?  " 

It  is  always  best  to  explain  upon  the  spot  an  equivo- 


Mrs.  Beaumont  of  Moonbank          115 

cal  situation.  He  explained  it.  He  told  her,  "  No," 
but  that  she  had  asked  him  to  help  Miss  Wenlith  with 
her  botany  studies. 

"  Oh !  "  was  the  comment.  She  seemed  to  find  the 
explanation  dull.  Then  she  shook  a  strong,  white 
finger  at  him. 

"  Don't  you  dare,"  she  threatened,  half  laughing 
and  yet  in  earnest,  "  to  say  a  word  about  seeing  me 
here.  There  would  be  an  awful  row." 

"  I  shall  say  nothing,  of  course,"  he  promised. 
"  But,"  he  added,  "  I  have  seen  more  of  life  than  you 
have,  and  may  I  tell  you  that  you  are  doing  an  impru- 
dent thing?  Secrets  which  servants  share  —  " 

"  I  am  known  here  as  Miss  Smith,"  she  said.  "  I 
always  wear  a  thick  motor  veil  over  my  face,  although 
I  never  motor.  And  the  other  servants  in  the  place 
copy  their  masters  and  mistresses  and  treat  the  serv- 
ants here  as  though  they  had  the  plague." 

He  shook  his  head. 

"  All  that  does  not  save  your  action  from  being  most 
unwise."  At  the  back  of  his  mind  was  her  lover's 
arrogant,  jealous  temper. 

"  But  it's  all  rubbish,"  she  cried  hotly.  "  I'm  not 
a  child.  I  like  to  know  about  things  and  to  judge  for 
myself.  Mrs.  Beaumont  is  perfectly  lovely.  I  never 
saw  anyone  who  was  a  patch  upon  her.  And  Alma  is 
as  much  a  lady  as  I  am,  and  a  thousand  times  more 
clever  and  interesting."  She  screwed  up  her  eyes 
wickedly.  "  The  Duke  is  the  only  member  of  the 
menage  whom  I  haven't  yet  seen." 

"  Well,"  Lowood  said,  "  of  course  you  must  do  as 
you  choose." 

"  Why,  of  course,"  she  said.  "  I  won't  be  kept  in 
leading-strings.  I  must  see  life  and  the  world  as  it  is. 
I  came  first  out  of  curiosity.  But  now  I'm  very  fond 
of  Alma,  and  of  Mrs.  Beaumont  too,  although  she 
always  talks  before  me  as  though  she  had  never  been 
out  of  the  schoolroom." 


116  The  Whips  of  Time 

He  raised  his  hat  and  turned. 

"  Now,   remember,  not  a  word,"   she  admonished 
him. 

"  Not  a  syllable,"  he  said. 


CHAPTER   XIII 

ALMA 

A  FEW  mornings  later  he  awoke  to  the  twittering  of 
a  robin  on  his  window-sill.  Its  light-hearted  chirping 
was  like  the  expression  of  an  odd  light-heartedness  in 
his  mind.  His  window  was  open.  Through  it  came 
the  fresh,  clean  breath  of  a  cold  morning.  A  half- 
lifted  blind  showed  a  white  mist  spread  like  a  delicate 
veil  of  tulle  before  the  scene  visible  from  his  bed :  a 
swell  of  green  hill,  a  curve  in  which  the  sky  lay  like 
a  magical  blue  draught  in  a  translucent  cup,  a  sombre 
fringe  of  firs,  like  the  fringe  of  a  green  garment  which 
dropped  to  the  heels  of  the  hill. 

His  mind  vibrated  pleasantly.  His  eyes  went  to  the 
neatly  folded  new  suit  of  tweeds  which  Vox  had  laid 
ready  for  his  wearing. 

Since  his  visit  to  Moonbank  his  brain  had  been  a 
sentimental  ferment.  As  Legh  had  described  the  two 
foolish  boys  who  had  swarmed  up  the  pillars  to  her 
window,  her  beauty  having  gone  to  their  heads  like 
wine,  so  now  her  beauty  had  gone  to  his  head  too  like 
wine. 

In  his  case  it  was  the  purest  sentiment.  His  re- 
pressed emotions  had  shrivelled  into  a  bundle  of  dry, 
sweet  herbs,  which  still  gave  off  delicate,  intoxicating 
aromas,  but  took  no  sap  from  the  blood,  had  no  roots 
in  the  flesh.  Being  a  mere  sentiment  he  was  able  to 
enjoy  it  to  the  full,  pleasing  himself  with  a  shy,  deli- 
cious delusion  that  he  was  in  love  for  the  first  time, 
that  the  great  emotion  of  which  he  had  read  and  heard 
so  much  was  at  last  granted  to  him.  He  indulged  it, 
dwelt  upon  it,  joyed  in  it,  showing  how  unlike  it  was 


118  The  Whips  of  Time 

to  the  real  thing.  For  there  is  this  great  difference 
between  a  genuine,  hopeless  passion  and  mere  senti- 
ment, that  while  a  man  pursues  the  one,  the  other 
pursues  a  man.  A  starving  man  only  adds  to  his  pain 
by  thoughts  of  food. 

Eleven  o'clock  found  him  following  a  Moonbank 
servant  once  more  along  the  painted  corridor.  But 
this  morning  he  was  not  shown  into  the  silver  boudoir, 
but  into  a  library,  of  which  the  gay  and  elegant  bind- 
ings of  its  volumes  augured  little  of  seriousness  within. 

A  bright  fire  burned  on  the  hearth.  Beside  it  Mrs. 
Beaumont  sat,  threading  strings  of  coloured  beads 
from  a  silver  tray  upon  her  knee.  At  her  feet  crouched 
a  white  and  tan  Blenheim  spaniel,  gazing  up  into  her 
face  as  though  her  beauty  were  a  thing  to  make  a  fond 
little  dog's  eyes  protrude  from  its  foolish  head.  At 
a  table  Miss  Wenlith  sat  entrenched  behind  books,  with 
a  sheaf  of  blank  pages  before  her,  in  her  eyes  a  great 
hunger. 

"  How  nice  of  you  to  come !  "  she  said,  as  she  shook 
hands  with  him.  She  pointed  to  her  books.  '"  I  am 
all  impatience  to  begin." 

"  We  will  not  waste  a  minute,"  he  returned,  smiling, 
and  proceeded  to  waste  many  on  the  pearl  and  diamond 
commonplaces  which  dropped  from  beauty's  mouth. 
Had  he  walked  ?  It  was  a  nice  morning  for  walking. 
For  her  part  she  was  afraid  it  was  very  idle  of  her,  but 
she  disliked  all  exercise  and  always  drove.  Yes,  Janita 
was  a  sweet  dog!  But  if  she  wasn't  careful  and  stared 
so  hard,  one  day  her  big  eyes  would  drop  out.  And 
then  what  would  her  missis  do  ? 

At  which  the  little  dog  whined  and  wagged  her 
silken  tail,  and  pricked  her  silken  ears,  and  really  stared 
so  hard  and  yearningly  into  her  missis's  face  that  it 
was  a  wonder  the  prediction  did  not  come  to  pass. 

Then  Mrs.  Beaumont  reapplied  herself  to  her  bead- 
threading,  which  she  did  like  a  child,  aimlessly  and 
slowly,  stopping  to  look  dreamily  into  the  fire  or  out 


Alma  119 

of  the  window,  as  though  she  found  even  this  trivial 
degree  of  mental  concentration  a  tax. 

Lowood  sat  down  to  the  table  beside  Miss  Wenlith. 
During  his  walk  he  had  plucked  a  handful  of  specimen 
grasses  and  weeds.  He  laid  them  before  her,  and 
taking  from  his  pocket  some  small  implements  such  as 
botanists  use,  prepared  to  dissect  them. 

An  eager,  nervous  hand  was  laid  on  his. 

"  No,  please,"  she  pleaded.  "  I  can  see  it  quite  well 
without  hurting  a  petal." 

"  Why !  "  he  said,  "  it  cannot  feel.  In  any  case  it 
will  die.  It  is  limp  already." 

"  But  of  course  it  feels,"  she  insisted.  "  Everything 
that  is  alive  feels.  See  how  prettily  it  lifts  its  head. 
It  is  like  a  small  white  star.  Don't  you  think  it  feels 
like  a  tiny  lamp  to  light  the  way  of  ants  and  beetles?  " 

Mrs.  Beaumont  looked  up  from  her  beads. 

"  I'm  afraid  you'll  find  Alma  odd,"  she  said  apolo- 
getically. "  She  has  lived  so  much  by  herself  that  she 
has  the  queerest  notions.  She's  actually  fond  of 
worms." 

"  I'm  not  fond  of  them,"  the  girl  said.  "  They're 
hideous  and  repulsive,  but  I'm  sorry  for  them.  They 
are  blind,  and  they  spend  all  their  lives  in  burrowing 
underground.  I  can't  see  that  they  have  a  single 
compensation.  Of  course  I  lift  them  out  of  the  way  of 
feet  and  spades.  I  hate  them  to  be  hurt." 

"  Well,  I  don't  like  to  tread  on  them,"  Mrs.  Beau- 
mont said.  She  gave  a  dainty  shudder.  "  But  I  don't 
mind  other  people  treading  on  them  or  chopping  them. 
They  don't  really  feel." 

'  Then,"  Lowood  said,  "  since  you  object  to  the 
vivisection  of  chickweed,  let  us  see  what  we  can  make 
of  it  without." 

'''  You  think  it  silly  and  sentimental  of  me?"  the 
girl  said,  flushing.  "  But  Nature  and  all  living  things 
seem  to  me  to  be  so  wonderful  and  beautiful.  Mutila- 
tion is  a  sacrilege." 


120  The  Whips  of  Time 

"  Perhaps  you  are  right.  But  evolution  hasn't  gone 
very  far.  We  are  still  primitive  savages  employing 
primitive  ways." 

"  Uncle  Tony  says  —  "  She  stopped  to  explain. 
"  I  mean  Lord  Anthony  Burghwallis.  He  is  not  really 
my  uncle,  but  I  have  always  called  him  uncle,  because 
he  is  the  brother  of  my  uncle,  by  marriage,  the  Duke, 
you  know." 

Mrs.  Beaumost  broke  into  a  little  outcry. 

"  Oh,  you  silly  Janita,  to  swallow  a  bead !  And  a 
green  bead  too !  Dr.  Lowood,  do  you  think  a  green 
bead  might  poison  her?" 

Lowood,  looking  into  her  embarrassed  face,  saw  that 
she  was  using  Janita  merely  as  a  turning-point  on 
which  to  change  an  awkward  topic.  He  gravely  reas- 
sured her  that  the  little  dog's  chances  of  recovery  from 
a  green  bead  he  did  not  for  a  moment  believe  she  had 
swallowed  were  hopeful. 

His  eyes  returned  to  Alma.  There  was  no  doubting 
her  ingenuous  good  faith.  He  realised  in  a  moment 
that  she  had  no  suspicion  of  the  true  facts. 

"  Uncle  Tony  used  to  call  me  a  little  fool,"  she  con- 
cluded, smiling. 

The  lesson  continued.  She  was  all  quickness  and 
eagerness.  As  Lowood  had  divined  upon  making 
her  acquaintance,  she  possessed  a  rare  order  of 
mind. 

When  the  clock  struck  one :  "  I  think,"  he  closed 
his  book  and  said,  "  you  have  had  enough  botany  for 
to-day." 

She  too  closed  her  book. 

"  I  think,"  she  said,  with  a  firm  little  smile,  "  I  have 
had  enough  botany  for  all  time.  It  seems  to  me  to  be 
the  most  stupid  study  possible.  I  expected  it  to  be  a 
sort  of  enchanted  story,  that  it  would  tell  me  what  the 
flowers  mean.  To  me  each  seems  to  have  an  individu- 
ality, to  be  a  sort  of  charming  little  person  with  fancies 
and  feelings  and  a  story.  And  botany  says  nothing 


Alma  121 

of  this,  but  only  gives  them  stupid  disfiguring  names 
and  ponderous  classifications." 

He  was  nettled.  It  had  seemed  to  him  that  he  had 
rather  excelled  as  a  teacher  and  that  his  explanations 
had  been  interesting  and  lucid. 

"  Do  you  think  so?  "  he  said.  "  The  names,  I  admit, 
are  ponderous,  but  the  classifications  have  reason  in 
them." 

"  No  more  reason,  it  seems,  than  to  classify  men  and 
women  as  blue-eyed  or  square-shouldered  or  long- 
legged.  It  would  not  give  you  a  notion  of  their  char- 
acters or  whether  they  were  horrid  or  delightful." 

"  You  do  not  distinguish  between  art  and  science," 
he  said.  "  Art  concerns  itself  with  the  form  and 
beauty  of  natural  phenomena,  science  concerns  itself 
with  the  hard  facts  of  similarity,  dissimilarity,  proper- 
ties and  so  forth." 

The  girl's  shining  eyes  were  fastened  eagerly  upon 
him,  as  though  to  probe  the  very  soul  of  his  reflections. 

"  Is  there  in  Nature,"  she  asked,  "  a  dividing  line 
between  the  science  and  the  art  of  things?  Are  they 
not  so  much  one  that  if  you  separate  them  you  lose 
half  the  truth?  Isn't  there  a  relation  between  the 
beauty  and  form  of  things  and  their  qualities?  " 

Lowood's  chagrin  gave  place  to  surprised  interest. 
Her  intense  sincerity  robbed  her  criticism  of  offence. 
It  was  not  the  failure  of  the  teacher  but  those  she 
regarded  as  the  defects  of  the  science  of  which  she 
complained.  And  he  had  known  moods  in  himself  in 
which  he  had  asked  the  same  questions. 

"  You  must  go  to  the  mystics,"  he  said,  "  to  learn 
these  things.  But  I  warn  you,  you  will  not  find  com- 
plete satisfaction.  We  have  so  long  accustomed  our- 
selves to  label  this  as  science  and  that  as  art,  and  the 
other  as  morality,  that  boundary  hedges  have  grown 
between,  hedges  which  have  of  course  no  place  in 
Nature." 

"  It  seems  very  stupid,"  she  said,  "  to  see  with  only 


122  The  Whips  of  Time 

half  one's  faculties.  For  instance,  a  month  ago  I 
found  Darwin's  Origin  of  Species  in  the  library.  I 
had  read  about  it  and  craved  to  read  it.  When  I  found 
it  I  simply  took  it  into  my  hands  and  kissed  it.  For 
a  week  I  did  not  open  it,  but  only  thought  about  it,  and 
longed  for  it,  and  every  now  and  again  went  and 
looked  at  it  to  feast  my  eyes." 

"  What  book  did  you  say,  Alma?  "  Mrs.  Beaumont 
inquired,  having  all  at  once  detected  a  concrete  fact 
in  the  speculative  talk.  "  How  interesting  it  must  be. 
You  must  let  me  have  it  when  you  have  finished  with 
it.  But  why,  if  you  so  wanted  to  read  it,  didn't  you 
buy  it?" 

"  It  was  far  more  beautiful  to  find  it  unexpectedly," 
her  niece  said,  "  like  a  shining  gift  dropped  out  of  the 
skies." 

"  Well,"  Lowood  asked,  "  and  did  it  repay  all  your 
emotion  when  you  read  it  ?  " 

The  small,  nervous  face  became  a  tragedy,  her  lu- 
minous eyes  drew  behind  clouds. 

"  It  was  the  most  horrible  disappointment.  All  the 
way  through  it  was  like  a  story  with  the  point  left  out, 
like  a  road  which  led  to  nothing.  It  was  page  after 
page  of  a  pigeon's  feather  developing  spots  and  col- 
ourings, and  little  dull  details  like  that  which  seemed 
to  have  no  meaning  in  them.  Of  course  the  evolution 
of  the  bird's  wing  must  mean  something.  It  must  be 
the  filling  in  of  some  plan  of  perfection  in  God's  mind. 
Plato  says,  '  The  good  is  the  beautiful  and  the  beau- 
tiful is  the  good.'  The  marking  of  the  pigeon's  wing 
must  have  a  higher  meaning.  But  Danvin  never  hints 
at  this.  One  might  think  he  didn't  believe  in  God  or 
that  men  had  souls." 

"  In  point  of  fact  I  believe  he  didn't.  But  it  was 
not  his  province.  His  province  was  to  prove  the 
material,  not  the  spiritual,  side  of  evolution.  Every 
man  to  his  trade,  you  know." 

He  rose. 


Alma  123 

"And  so  you  have  done  with  your  botany-master? 
I  must  say  you  have  made  short  work  of  me,  and  of  a 
science  it  has  taken  a  number  of  very  learned  men  a 
very  long  time  to  construct." 

She  broke  into  a  dismayed  cry.  Her  hand  clung 
eagerly  to  his. 

"  But  you  are  not  saying  good-bye  ? "  she  said. 
"  Dr.  Lowood,  you  will  come  again.  It  has  been  such 
a  delight  to  me  to  hear  you  talk.  I  meant  to  say  only 
that  perhaps  you  would  teach  me  something  more 
interesting  than  botany." 

As  though  dreading  to  lose  him,  she  caught  at  a 
something. 

'  Teach  me  astrology,"  she  begged. 

"  Heavens !  "  he  cried,  laughing,  "  I  am  not  a  pro- 
fessional palmist." 

"  But  is  not  astrology  the  science  of  the  stars  ?  " 

He  saw  that  if  she  possessed  some  original  notions 
she  was  possessed  also  by  some  ignorances. 

"  I  imagine  you  mean  astronomy." 

"  I  thought  they  were  the  same."  She  flushed.  "  I 
know  I  am  horribly  ignorant.  I  only  know  what  I 
have  picked  up  from  books  and  from  a  French 
governess,  who  thought  of  nothing  but  accomplish- 
ments. But  will  you  not  teach  me  astronomy  instead 
of  botany?  " 

Years  earlier  he  had  dipped  into  some  popular  man- 
uals of  the  science,  had  even  spent  some  evenings 
gazing  through  telescopes. 

"  Well,  then,"  he  assented,  "  I  have  some  delightful 
books  of  Ball's  and  one  of  Flammarion's  which  is  like 
a  romance.  I  will  bring  them  in  on  Friday.  But  I 
warn  you  astronomy  also  has  dry-as-dust  tables  and 
prosaic  calculations." 

He  was  saying  good-bye  to  his  hostess,  for  whose 
sake,  rather  than  for  his  pupil's,  he  had  consented  to 
play  first  botanist  and  now  astronomer,  when  the  door 
opened  and  "  Miss  Smith  "  was  announced, 


124  The  Whips  of  Time 

So  soon  as  the  servant  had  gone  she  threw  back  her 
thick  motor  veil.  She  put  her  two  hands  on  Mrs. 
Beaumont's  shoulders  and  kissed  one  of  her  cheeks 
with  the  intimacy  of  close  acquaintance. 

She  laughed  and  kissed  the  other. 

"  The  first  kiss  was  to  say  '  How  do  you  do?  '  "  she 
said.  "  The  second  because  you  are  so  beautiful. 
Every  time  I  see  you  I  am  as  much  surprised  as  ever." 

"  My  dear,  how  you  talk,"  Mrs.  Beaumont  said 
placidly.  Miss  Kesteven  shook  hands  with  Lowood. 
Beneath  her  lowered  lids  her  green  eyes  narrowed  with 
arch  understanding  upon  the  bond  of  secrecy  between 
them. 

"  Well,  Herr  Professor,"  she  said  lightly,  "  and  how 
does  your  pupil  do  ?  "  Without  waiting  for  his  answer 
she  kissed  his  pupil. 

"  You  silly  Alma,"  she  rebuked  her,  "  to  waste  your 
time  on  books  instead  of  being  out  of  doors."  Then 
also  without  waiting  for  Alma's  answer,  in  her  stren- 
uous, restless  fashion  she  turned  back  to  Mrs.  Beau- 
mont. 

"  Please,  Mrs.  Beaumont,"  she  said,  "  I  have  come 
to  lunch.  Have  you  got  anything  good  ?  Mother  and 
I  have  had  an  awful  shindy  and  I'm  in  the  sulks  and 
shan't  go  home.  Mother  says  a  girl  who's  engaged  to 
one  man  has  no  right  to  flirt  with  another.  Did  you 
ever  hear  such  old-fashioned  rubbish?  And  besides, 
I  don't  flirt;  I've  known  Bobby  Legh  all  my  life.  How 
can  I  behave  to  him  as  though  we  have  only  been  just 
introduced  ?  I  told  her  it  was  nothing  but  rot." 

"  Oh,  my  dear,"  Mrs.  Beaumont  protested  with  a 
shocked  air,  "but  you  really  didn't  say  that?" 

Miss  Kesteven  laughed.  "  Say  '  rot ' !  "  she  cried. 
"  But  of  course  I  did.  It's  the  only  sensible  word 
there  is  nowadays.  '  Rot '  and  '  rotten  '  and  '  rotter.' 
Talk  would  be  half  blanks  if  they  were  left  out. 
Wouldn't  it,  Dr.  Lowood  ?  " 

"  To  my   mind,"   he   returned   drily,   "  the   blanks 


Alma  125 

would  be  more  expressive,  because  one  could  fill  them 
oneself  with  the  suitable  adjectives." 

"  But  that's  where  the  bore  lies.  Why  use  a 
dozen  words  when  one  will  do  ?  One  can't  stop  to  talk 
like  a  book.  And  '  rot '  means  everything." 

"  No,"  he  insisted,  "  it  means  only  one  thing  — 
matter  in  a  state  of  decomposition.  And  you  could 
scarcely  class  Lady  Kesteven's  observations  as  matter 
in  a  state  of  decomposition." 

"  Perhaps  not,"  her  daughter  insisted  energetically, 
"  but  all  the  same  they  were  rot." 

Lowood  took  his  leave,  declining  Mrs.  Beaumont's 
request  that  he,  too,  wouM  join  them  at  luncheon. 

"  I  dare  not,"  he  said.  "  Young  women  in  their 
teens  who  dismiss  a  science  centuries  old  in  a  few 
words,  and  comprise  the  whole  English  language  in 
three  letters,  are  alarming  to  a  timid  bachelor  of  old- 
fashioned  views." 

He  left  the  girls  indignantly  protesting  against  his 
description  of  them  as  being  "  in  their  teens." 


CHAPTER    XIV 

YOUNG   MUNNINGS 

GOING  home  he  was  overtaken  by  Hestroyde.  His 
face  was  clouded  with  annoyance.  He  shook  hands 
with  Lowood  and  walked  on  with  him. 

"  Did  you  see  Miss  Kasteven  anywhere  on  the 
road?  "  he  asked.  "  I  saw  her  before  me  and  hurried 
to  catch  her  up.  But  in  the  bend  by  Moonbank  I  lost 
sight  of  her.  She  must  have  turned  off,  I  suppose,  by 
Wren  Lane,  but  I  ran  quite  a  distance  down  it  and 
saw  nothing  of  her." 

Lowood  had  a  bias  toward  strict  truth.  It  offended 
him  to  make  an  answer  which  was  verbally  although 
not  actually  true.  But  feeling  that  he  had  no 
alternative,  "  I  saw  nothing  of  Miss  Kesteven  on  the 
road,"  he  said. 

Hestroyde,  obviously  disappointed  to  have  missed 
her,  pursued  the  subject. 

"  She  must,  of  course,  have  turned  off  down  Wren 
Lane.  I  was  a  fool  not  to  go  on,  but  having  run  a 
mile  I  thought  she  could  not  have  come  so  far  in  the 
time  and  turned  back,  expecting  still  to  catch  her  up 
on  the  road.  There  were  only  Wren  Lane  and  Moon- 
bank  by  which  she  could  have  left  the  road." 

He  laughed. 

"  So  it  must  have  been  Wren  Lane.  Because,  of 
course,  she  would  be  as  unlikely  to  go  near  Moonbank 
as  she  would  be  "  (he  made  a  gesture  in  the  direction 
of  a  small  inn  they  were  passing)  "  to  go  to  the  bar 
of  the  Pig  and  Whistle  there  and  call  for  beer." 

As  Lowood  could  not  truthfully  assent  to  this  state- 


Young  Munnings  127 

ment,  nor  dissent  from  it  without  betraying  the  girl's 
secret,  he  kept  silence. 

"  One  feels  such  a  fool  to  have  missed  her,"  the 
young  man  grumbled  on,  "  besides  the  disappoint- 
ment." 

Lowood  smiled  to  himself  at  all  this  fuss  about 
losing  an  hour  of  the  company  of  one  with  whom  he 
was  presently  to  spend  his  life. 

"  Why,"  he  said,  smiling  openly,  "  you  can  make 
up  for  it  this  afternoon." 

"  Yes,  but  —  "  the  young  man  began  eagerly,  then 
bit  his  lip  and  stopped.  He  had  been  going  to  say 
that  he  might,  of  course,  see  her  in  the  afternoon,  but 
that  the  water  had  flowed  beneath  the  bridge  bearing 
with  it  forever  the  possibility  of  his  having  also  seen 
her  in  the  morning. 

They  walked  on  without  speaking  till  Hestroyde 
broke  the  silence.  His  face  had  now  cleared,  his  voice 
had  lost  its  annoyance. 

"  It  seems  to  me,  sir,"  he  said  a  trifle  diffidently, 
"  that  the  goodness  and  innocence  of  women  are  great 
things  in  life  —  standbys  and  beacons  and  all  that  to 
help  men  to  be  better  and  higher.  Don't  you  think 
so?" 

'''  Why,  yes,"  Lowood  assented.  "  And  it  is  right 
that  the  men,  being  of  coarser  calibre,  should  stand 
between  these  more  delicate  creatures  and  the  harder 
things  of  life.  By  that  means  they  are  able  to  preserve 
their  valuable  delicate  and  subtle  qualities.  You 
remember  Jean  Paul  Richter,  '  The  purer  the  golden 
vessel  the  more  readily  it  is  bent.' ' 

But  Hestroyde's  philosophy  was  not  proposing  to 
soar  into  abstract  regions.  It  fluttered,  a  fond  captive, 
to  her  who  had  evoked  it. 

"  Saxby,"  he  broke  out  vehemently,  "  should  have 
kept  his  Moonbank  in  London,  where  nobody  knows 
anything  of  his  next-door  neighbour.  Here  it  be- 
comes a  sort  of  object  lesson  in  vice." 


128  The  Whips  of  Time 

"  Oh,  well,"  Lowood  answered,  "  women  are  not 
children.  There  is  no  use  in  keeping  them  so. 
Innocence  is  really  a  higher  quality  than  ignorance. 
Innocence  knows  good  and  evil  and  chooses  good." 

"  But  to  give  them  Mrs.  Beaumont  for  a  neigh- 
bour !  "  Hestroyde  insisted.  "  It  is  a  sort  of  personal 
insult  to  our  women  —  to  Lady  Kesteven  and  Joan, 
to  Mrs.  Tempest,  and,  while  she  was  living,  to  my  own 
mother." 

His  mention  of  his  mother,  and  in  this  relation,  set 
Lowood  glancing  at  the  clear-cut,  haughty  profile,  just 
now  flushed  with  an  indignation  which,  if  righteous, 
was  also  pharisaical. 

Heavens !  he  thought,  if  the  man  but  knew !  Com- 
pared with  his  own  mother's,  if  he  be  indeed  Mun- 
nings,  Mrs.  Beaumont's  transgressions  are  as  light  to 
outer  darkness. 

"  Oh,  well,"  he  said  briskly,  "  Mrs.  Beaumont  is  a 
very  beautiful  person  and  apparently  quite  well- 
behaved." 

"  I  say  nothing  against  her  personally,  of  course," 
Hestroyde  admitted,  "  it  is  the  principle.  These 
things,  like  sewers,  should  be  kept  from  the  sight  of 
our  good  women." 

Is  he  an  idealist?  Lowood  wondered.  Or  a  prig? 
Or  is  this  counsel  of  perfection  merely  that  quicken- 
ing of  the  moral  perceptions  which  comes  of  being  in 
love? 

He  accepted  readily  the  young  man's  invitation  to 
lunch  with  him.  The  psychological  problem  of  how 
the  son  of  Sarah  Munnings  had  come  to  possess  such 
fine  sentiments,  and  to  what  extent  these  sentiments 
were  real  or  fictitious,  interested  him.  He  walked 
beside  him  up  the  straight,  broad  drive  to  the  square, 
forbidding-looking  mansion.  Inside  it  was  spacious 
and  gloomy,  and  was  presided  over  by  a  particularly 
hideous  and  evil-looking  ancestry,  who  frowned  and 
glowered  from  their  portraits  on  the  walls,  a  chamber 


Young  Mannings  129 

of  family  skeletons.  Lowood,  in  his  sensitive  fashion, 
felt  almost  uneasy  beneath  their  uncanny  scrutiny. 
He  reflected  upon  the  anomaly  of  preserving  this  rec- 
ord of  unprepossessing  forbears,  who,  save  for  the 
fact  that  their  position  in  life  had  enabled  them  to 
be  perpetrated  in  oils  by  old  masters,  were  as  humanly 
discreditable  as  it  was  possible  to  be. 

"  You  are  thinking  what  an  ugly  lot  we  are,"  Hes- 
troyde  said,  smiling  slightly,  as  he  detected  his  guest's 
eyes  upon  the  walls. 

"  I  can't  pretend  that  they  are  prepossessing,"  Lo- 
wood said.  "  But  I  can  at  all  events  congratulate  you 
upon  not  resembling  them.  You  owe  it  to  your  family 
to  place  a  portrait  of  yourself  in  every  room." 

Now  Hestroyde  smiled  fully.  It  lightened  his  dark 
face  and  showed  a  pleasant  sweetness  in  it. 

"  I  am  so  used  to  the  ugly  old  chaps  I  don't  notice 
them  now,"  he  said.  "  But  they  got  on  my  grand- 
father's nerves.  He  said  he'd  be  hanged  (he  began  it 
with  a  '  d  ')  if  he'd  add  another  —  qualified  —  frump 
or  fright  to  the  wall  for  fear  they'd  come  tumbling 
about  his  ears.  He  married  an  Italian  peasant  girl  of 
great  beauty.  My  father  was  —  is  still  —  a  very  fine- 
looking  man." 

"  Then  your  father  is  still  living?  " 

"  Did  you  not  know  ?  He  met  with  a  bad  accident 
out  hunting,  and  has  been  paralysed  for  years.  He 
sees  nobody.  He  hasn't  even  seen  Joan  —  Miss 
Kesteven  — •  yet." 

He  did  not  add,  that  which  Lowood  learned  later, 
that  the  elder  man,  chafing  beneath  his  affliction,  was 
a  severe  trial  in  his  son's  life,  a  trial  which  he  was 
known  to  bear  with  fortitude  and  gentleness. 

They  lunched  in  a  gloomy  dining-hall,  which,  oak- 
walled,  oak-floored  and  oak-ceiled,  and  the  ceiling 
being  low  and  heavy,  gave  Lowood  an  impression  of 
being  shut  into  some  great  coffer,  of  which  the  lid, 
beneath  the  ministrations  of  the  wicked-looking  com- 


130  The  Whips  of  Time 

pany  upon  the  walls,  might  at  any  moment  be  expected 
to  descend  and  crush  them. 

Hestroyde,  who  was  accustomed  to  this  sombre 
eating-place,  showed  no  lack  of  appetite  or  other  sign 
of  uneasiness.  And  Lowood,  following  his  example, 
was  ready,  after  his  long  walk,  to  do  justice  to  the 
cold  meats  and  game  and  excellent  claret  set  before 
him.  Young  Hestroyde  dispensed  with  no  ceremony. 
Two  tall  servants,  so  precisely  of  height  and  breadth 
as  to  be  an  object  lesson  in  the  exactions  of  their  mas- 
ter, waited  upon  them  with  an  air  of  undergoing  penal 
servitude.  And  the  young  man  kept  a  sharp  watch 
upon  them  and  reproved  an  omission  with  a  severity 
which  showed  an  imperious  and  intolerant  temper. 

He  reflected  that  a  woman  would  be  a  godsend  in 
this  sombre  household,  rendered  to  him  more  sombre 
by  his  new  knowledge  of  a  paralysed  head  of  it.  Joan 
Kesteven,  with  her  cleverness  and  warm  energy,  would 
bring  a  new  wave  of  vital  force  and  temperamental 
sunshine  into  it.  At  the  same  time,  still  further  real- 
ising the  young  man's  difficult  temper,  he  realised  that 
she  would  bring  also  storm.  For  example,  what  a 
tempest  would  rage  when  he  should,  as  he  must  sooner 
or  later  do,  discover  her  friendship  with  Moonbank, 
the  very  existence  of  which  his  exacting  fastidiousness 
desired  to  keep  unknown  to  her! 

Hestroyde  did  not  appeal  to  him  in  the  manner  in 
which  Legh  did.  He  lacked  the  latter's  frank  and 
open  genercas-heartedness.  His  nature  was  deeper, 
more  reserved,  and,  Lowood  could  not  help  admitting, 
more  complex  and  interesting.  He  was  well  read  and 
had  a  studious  and  philosophic  bent  which,  but  for  the 
outdoor  habits  to  which  he  had  been  bred,  would  per- 
haps have  made  a  bookworm  of  him. 

Yet,  when  he  found  himself  yielding  too  much  to 
the  young  man's  attraction,  he  recalled  the  incident  of 
the  slain  bulldog.  The  act,  revengeful  and  petty,  be- 
trayed a  vein  of  bad  blood.  For,  not  by  a  man's  intel- 


Young  Munnings  131 

lectual  tastes  nor  by  his  veneer  of  sentiments  is  he  to 
be  judged,  but  by  his  impulses  when  stirred. 

Lowood  found  himself,  despite  his  natural  justness, 
biassed  at  every  turn  by  his  conviction  that  this  was 
Munnings.  And  the  conviction  made  him  believe 
further  that  the  young  man's  hauteur  and  fine  senti- 
ments were  strained,  that  on  the  slightest  provocation 
they  would  go  to  pieces  and  reveal  an  evil  nature. 

"  When  we  have  finished  our  coffee,"  his  host  said, 
"  since  you  are  so  interested  in  the  ancestral  features 
I  will  show  you  my  mother's  portrait.  My  grand- 
father strongly  impressed  his  views  on  my  father. 
'  For  God's  sake,  Harry,'  my  father  tells  me  he  was 
in  the  habit  of  saying,  '  now  that  we  have  got  a 
straight  nose  in  the  family,  do  your  best  to  keep  it 
there.'  And  my  father  also  married  a  beauty." 

When  he  presently  rose,  Lowood  got  to  his  feet  in 
a  hurry.  With  keen  interest  he  followed  the  young 
man's  supple  figure  down  another  lane  of  frowning 
ancestors. 

Now  perhaps  some  light  would  be  thrown  upon  the 
mystery !  If  her  reputed  son  should  resemble  the  por- 
trait he  was  about  to  see  it  would  be  a  strong  reason 
for  suspecting  Legh  after  all  of  being  the  murderess' 
son. 


CHAPTER    XV 

A    LETTER    FROM    HUMMERSTONE 

THE  portrait  was  a  fine  one  by  Millais.  It  held  the 
place  of  honour  in  a  circular  picture-gallery,  lighted 
from  a  dome-shaped  window  in  the  roof.  In  its  crisp 
freshness  of  colour  and  vigour  of  drawing  it  stood  out 
from  the  more  subtle  and  elusive  Reynolds  and  Hopp- 
ners,  perhaps  a  little  crudely,  but  with  that  schoolboy 
frankness  and  simplicity  which  characterise  Millais' 
portraits. 

The  first  thing  which  impressed  Lowood,  however, 
was  its  absolute  lack  of  likeness  in  feature  to  Hes- 
troyde.  The  lady  of  the  portrait  was  as  fair  as  he  was 
dark,  as  petite  and  rounded  as  he  was  tall  and  loose- 
limbed.  Her  widely-opened,  smiling  blue  eyes  were 
innocent  of  subtlety,  of  depth,  of  mental  complexity. 

"  You  resemble  your  father,  I  suppose,"  he  said. 

Hestroyde  looked  doubtful. 

"  At  all  events,"  he  said.  "  I'm  like  him  in  being 
dark." 

"  And  who  is  the  child  holding  your  mother's  hand  ? 
Have  you  a  brother  or  a  sister  ?  "  He  laughed.  "  For 
the  life  of  me  I  can't  tell  in  that  quaint  dress  whether 
the  child  is  boy  or  girl." 

"  It  was  a  girl.  She  died  of  consumption  when  she 
was  six." 

The  child  was  like  its  mother,  flaxen-fair  and  blue- 
eyed,  and  smiling.  The  two  pairs  of  eyes  gazed 
limpidly  out  from  the  canvas  upon  the  life  their 
owners  had  quitted. 

When  Lowood  reached  home  he  went  straight  to 
his  desk  and  wrote  to  Hummerstone. 


133 

Little  by  little  the  two  men  had  dropped  apart. 
Hummerstone,  cold  of  nature  and  absorbed  in  his 
laboratory,  had  no  need  of  friends.  And  after  his  so- 
called  "  experiment "  Lowood,  who  had  mainly  fos- 
tered the  intimacy,  had  no  further  need  of  him  for 
friend. 

For  years  they  had  neither  met  nor  had  they  corre- 
sponded. Now,  however,  Lowood  was  beset  by  an 
overmastering  desire  to  clear  up  the  mystery.  It  had 
ceased  to  be  an  engrossing  psychological  speculation. 
The  persons  composing  it  had  become  his  neighbours 
and  friends.  He  felt  that  it  was  intolerable  to  play 
detective  to  them. 

Briefly  he  informed  Hummerstone  that  he  was  now 
living  at  Scrope-Denton.  He  recalled  their  conver- 
sation of  that  memorable  evening.  He  told  him  a 
few  facts  about  the  two  young  men  and  begged  him, 
in  the  strictest  confidence,  to  tell  him  the  truth.  Which 
was  indeed  the  murderess'  son?  He  assured  him  that 
the  confidence  would  be  a  sacred  and  inviolable  one. 
What  had  been  done  had  been  done.  Only  grave  harm 
and  distress  could  come  of  revealing  it.  Hummer- 
stone  might  trust  him  implicitly  to  make  no  sort  of 
use  of  anything  he  might  disclose. 

He  sealed  and  himself  took  the  letter  to  the  post- 
office,  where  he  had  it  registered  and  despatched. 

He  returned  in  time  to  see  a  carriage  moving  away 
from  the  gate  of  Homer  Cottage.  He  caught  a 
glimpse  of  a  plumed  hat  and  of  a  well-remembered 
amber  knot. 

He  was  filled  with  disappointment. 

"  Aphrodite  at  my  gates,  perhaps  within  my  doors, 
and  I  abroad !  "  he  reflected. 

He  went,  in  a  mood  of  vexation,  up  the  gravelled 
walk.  As  he  went  he  wondered  whether  the  ruffled 
peacocks  would  have  yielded  to  her  beauty  —  would 
have  smoothed  their  peevish  plumage  for  her. 

His   sentimental   ponderings   were   cut   summarily 


134  The  Whips  of  Time 

short.  In  the  hall  Lydia,  the  Misses  Epithite's  austere 
maid,  awaited  him  with  a  grim  face. 

"  If  you  please,  sir,"  she  said,  with  ill-concealed 
rancour,  "  Misses  Epithite  would  like  to  speak  to  you 
immediately." 

"  Indeed,"  he  said.  "  Will  they  come  to  me  in  the 
drawing-room?  Or,  if  they  prefer  it,  I  will  go  to 
them." 

"  They  will  prefer  to  come  to  you,"  Lydia  stated. 
They  preferred  always  to  go  to  him.  It  appeared  as 
though  they  would  lose  no  opportunity  of  setting  foot 
again  in  the  abode  he  had  usurped. 

In  less  than  a  minute  he  was  confronted  by  the  hard 
old  apple-faces  with  their  glinting  eyes,  just  then  glint- 
ing with  more  than  ordinary  belligerence. 

Obeying  the  civilities  to  which  he  had  been  trained, 
he  made  a  feint  of  placing  chairs  for  them. 

In  a  moment  Miss  Ursula  pounced  upon  the  feint 
with  flinty  asperity. 

"  Thank  you,  we  prefer  to  stand,"  she  snapped. 

She  waited  for  him  to  spread  still  more  of  his  cloak 
on  which  for  her  to  'trample.  This,  however,  taught 
by  experience,  he  did  not  do.  He  merely  —  as  they 
were  standing  —  remained  also  standing. 

Then  Miss  Ursula  began,  in  a  thin  voice,  etched 
thinner  than  usual  by  some  acrid  emotion. 

"  Dr.  Lowood,  you  remember  when  you  took  this 
house  you  not  only  obtained  references  from  us,  but 
we  also  asked  references  from  you.  We  should  not 
have  thought  otherwise  of  letting  the  house  we  have 
resided  in  for  so  many  years." 

Lowood  bowed. 

"  You  found  our  references  irreproachable,  I  be- 
lieve. Our  father,  John  Epithite  of  Riccalby,  was  well 
known  all  his  life,  and  his  father  before  him.  Both 
died  respected  by  all  who  knew  them." 

As  she  paused  for  his  reply  he  said,  "  Really,  Miss 


A  Letter  from  Hummerstone          135 

Epithite,  I  need  scarcely  say  I  found  these  references 
all  that  could  be  desired." 

She  lost  control.  Her  thin  old  body  seemed  like  a 
dried  reed  shaken  in  a  wind. 

"  And  yet  you  disregard  them,  sir.  You  hold  up 
my  sister  and  myself  to  the  talk  and  discreditable  gos- 
sip of  our  neighbours." 

"  I  think  not,"  he  said  firmly.  "  I  neither  mean 
nor  have  I  acted  with  any  sort  of  disrespect  to  you." 

"  Sir  —  "  Miss  Epithite  broke  in. 

Miss  Ursula  turned  upon  her.  "  Pray,  Charlotte," 
she  protested,  "  do  not  interrupt  me.  You  know  I 
can  never  bear  interruptions."  She  turned  again  to 
Lowood. 

"  This  afternoon,"  she  shrilled,  pointing  a  quiver- 
ing old  finger  at  him,  "  this  afternoon,  for  the  second 
time,  the  Moonbank  carriage  —  " 

In  a  moment  he  knew  what  was  coming.  He  was 
one  of  those  tolerant  men  who  do  not  surround  their 
dignity  with  cheap  defences.  By  this  means  people 
came  right  upon  it  just  when  they  believed  it  to  be 
non-existent. 

Even  the  hard  old  eyes  of  the  Epithites  quailed  now 
beneath  his  sudden  lightning-anger. 

He  stood  above  them  tall  and  lean  and  very  quiet. 

"  I  allow  nobody,"  he  said  in  a  tone  of  ice,  "  to 
remark  upon  my  acquaintance.  Anything  you  do  not 
like  it  is  in  your  power  to  put  a  stop  to  by  terminating 
my  lease.  Am  I  to  regard  this  as  a  wish  on  your  part 
to  end  my  tenancy  of  Homer  Cottage?  " 

Seeing  the  effect  upon  them  of  his  uncompromising 
words,  in  his  humane  fashion  he  almost  regretted 
them.  In  a  moment  all  their  hardihood  had  gone. 
They  stood  like  two  mechanical  dolls  of  which  the 
springs  had  suddenly  broken. 

Miss  Ursula,  awed  by  what  she  had  done,  by  the 
unexpected  rebellion  of  tjiis  mild,  civil  man  she  had 


136  The  Whips  of  Time 

thought  to  bully  into  subjection  collapsed  utterly.  She 
gave  a  little  gasp  and  stood  in  trembling  silence.  Her 
sister  rallied.  With  great  presence  of  mind  she  be- 
thought her  to  assume  her  weapon  of  ingenuousness. 

"  But,  Dr.  Lowood,"  she  said,  "  it  is  only  that  the 
Moonbank  carriage  cuts  up  the  road  before  the  gate 
so.  The  horses  are  so  spirited  and  paw  so.  They 
make  quite  little  pits.  Ursula  thought  it  made  the 
road  unpleasant  for  you  in  wet  weather.  I  assure  you 
it  was  only  that.  Pray,  pray  do  not  misunderstand 
her.  She  had  no  idea  of  interfering  with  you  in  any 
way.  I'm  sure  you've  behaved  very  handsomely."  She 
turned  upon  her  sister.  "  Really,  Ursula,"  she  scolded 
her,  "  you  shall  not  vex  Dr.  Lowood  so.  What  does 
it  signify  about  a  puddle  or  two  before  the  gate?  I'm 
sure  Hindlip  can  fill  them  in  with  a  handful  of  gravel 
and  nobody  be  the  worse." 

So  scolding  she  dragged  her  away,  for  the  first  time 
in  her  life  cowed  and  submissive,  for  the  first  time 
obedient  to  her  sister's  claim  of  age.  Having  gained 
the  annex,  she  too  collapsed  into  a  chair. 

"  And  he  pays  us  five  guineas  a  week,"  she  gasped. 
"  Oh,  Ursula,  what  have  you  done  ?  " 

Ursula  was  not  so  spent,  however,  as  to  be  unequal 
to  fighting  her  sister  and  all  the  more  vigorously  be- 
cause she  felt  it  incumbent  upon  her  to  cover  her 
recent  defeat. 

"  I  done !  "  she  protested.  "  It  was  you  who  sug- 
gested it." 

"  But  I  expected  you  to  do  it  differently,  to  use  tact 
and  —  and  diplomacy.  Now,  if  you  had  left  it  to 
me  —  " 

Before  the  eyes  of  scorn,  which  Ursula  turned  upon 
her,  her  little  triumph  dropped  from  her  like  a 
borrowed  feather. 

"  I  think,  perhaps,  I  could  have  done  it  better,"  she 
concluded  humbly. 

Then  the  quarrel  ceased,  neither  having  spirit  to 


A  Letter  from  Hummerstone          137 

sustain  it.  For  should  Lowood  leave,  not  only  would 
they  lose  his  very  welcome  rent,  but  he  would  take 
with  him  all  the  zest  and  interest  his  presence  added  to 
their  lives. 

All  their  giants  had  been  slain  so  many  times  over, 
their  bones  of  contention  gnawed  so  bare.  And 
Lowood  had  proved  a  most  prolific  giant.  He  had  sup- 
plied them  with  as  many  fresh  bones  as  they  could 
daily  cope  with.  His  present,  his  past,  his  future,  his 
looks,  his  clothes,  his  food,  his  cigars,  his  umbrellas, 
his  neckties,  his  collars,  his  letters,  his  man-servant 
and  his  remarks  had  opened  up  new  worlds  of  contest. 
Never  before  had  they  been  so  provided  with  daily 
prey  for  wordy  powder.  The  prospect  of  losing  all 
this  and  his  rent  sent  their  hardy  old  hearts  down  into 
their  elastic-sided  boots.  In  their  darkness  of  despair 
and  of  a  room  they  had  not  the  heart  to  light  by 
kindling  their  lamp  they  even  drew  so  near  together  as 
to  sit  holding  one  another's  hands. 

"  Is  Dr.  Lowood  drinking  his  tea  as  though  noth- 
ing had  happened,  Lydia?"  Miss  Epithite  demanded 
eagerly  when  that  austere  person  brought  in  their  own. 

"  Looks  as  cross  as  two  sticks,"  Lydia  said  mali- 
ciously. "  Whatever  are  you  sitting  in  the  dark  for?  " 

Ursula  uttered  a  sound  like  the  gnashing  of  artificial 
teeth. 

"  He  isn't  packing,  I  suppose?  "  she  faltered. 

"  Why,  is  he  going  anywhere?  "  Lydia  asked  curi- 
ously. "  Or  have  you  been  nagging  him  so's  you 
think  he'll  leave?  That'll  be  a  pretty  thing.  To  lose 
a  gentleman  as  liberal-'anded  as  he  is  with  his  things. 
Couldn't  you  have  kept  a  civil  tongue  in  your  heads?  " 

"Lydia,  how  dare  you?"  Miss  Ursula  cried  in  a 
voice  of  outrage.  "  How  do  you  dare  to  give  me  such 
outrageous  impudence?  Leave  the  room  this  very  in- 
stant —  this  very  instant,  I  say." 

Lydia  continued  to  lay  out  her  cups  with  delibera- 
tion. 


138  The  Whips  of  Time 

"  If  I  was  to  go,"  she  retorted,  "  you'd  have  to  set 
your  own  tea.  Not  but  what  that  wouldn't  be  better 
than  worriting  a  gentleman  that's  so  liberal-'anded  out 
of  the  house  with  your  tongues.  I'll  just  tell  you  what 
it  is,  then.  If  he  goes,  I  goes.  Blest  if  I  haven't 
stood  it  long  enough.  Thirteen  year  I've  been  at  it. 
And  then  just  when  we've  got  a  liberal  'and  and  a 
little  life  into  the  place  you  ups  and  spoils  it  all." 

She  whisked  the  last  plate  upon  the  table,  she  cuffed 
the  teapot's  ears.  Then  she  flung  to  the  door. 

Just  as  she  was  about  to  vanish  through  it,  far  too 
exasperated  to  remain  another  moment,  Miss  Ursula 
asserted  herself  with  a  chance  of  doing  so  effectually. 

"  Lydia,"  she  shrilled,  "  I  command  you  to  leave 
the  room  this  very  instant."  She  waited  one  dreadful 
moment  for  Lydia  to  return.  Then,  as  the  door 
slammed  and  her  anxious  moment  passed,  she  said, 
with  waxing  spirit : 

'  You  see,  I  stand  no  impertinence,  Charlotte.  I 
will  be  obeyed  in  my  own  house." 

Even  in  her  mood  of  darkness  Charlotte  assumed 
her  ingenuous  malice.  For  was  not  the  house  equally 
hers?  Was  it  not  more  hers  indeed  than  Ursula's  by 
right  of  seniority? 

"  Oh,  then,  you  think  he  really  means  to  go, 
Ursula?" 

"  Did  I  say  so,  Charlotte  ?  " 

"  No,  but  you  called  it  your  house,  although,  if  he 
stops,  it's  let  to  him." 

They  were  too  depressed  to  fight  it  out.  They  felt 
the  hand  of  the  world  —  even  Lydia's  as  well  —  was 
this  evening  against  them.  They  drank  their  tea  and 
chewed  the  cud  of  Lydia's  heavy  cake  with  bitterness. 

To  tell  the  truth,  Lowood  had  meant  only  to  read 
his  old  tyrants  a  lesson.  He  was  too  well  pleased  with 
Scrope-Denton,  too  engrossed  by  the  interests  it  fur- 
nished, to  have  any  intention  of  leaving  it. 

Having  administered  his  lesson  he  let  the  subject 


A  Letter  from  Hummerstone          139 

slip  his  mind.  And  Lydia's  report  that  he  was  look- 
ing as  cross  as  two  sticks  was  a  piece  of  malicious 
fiction  upon  her  part.  In  point  of  fact,  when  she  had 
taken  in  his  cup  of  tea  she  had  found  him  smiling 
above  the  letter  which  had  occasioned  all  the  trouble, 
an  earnest  appeal  from  Miss  Wenlith  that  he  would 
not  desert  her  as  he  had  threatened,  but  would  be 
delightfully  kind  enough  to  continue  his  visits  to 
Moonbank  for  the  purpose  of  instructing  her  in  some 
or  another  'ology.  She  wrote  a  firm  and  charming 
hand.  She  was  guilty  of  no  blots  and  her  spelling 
was  irreproachable. 

A  few  days  later  Lowood  found  upon  his  breakfast- 
table  another  letter,  addressed  in  a  hand  which  seemed 
strange  and  yet  familiar.  For  a  moment  he  delib- 
erated. Then  the  familiarity  overbore  the  strangeness. 
He  pounced  upon  it. 

Lydia,  who  was  in  the  room,  observing  him  with 
narrow  eyes,  departed  in  haste  to  inform  her  mis- 
tresses, with  whom  she  had  made  her  peace,  that  their 
tenant  had  received  a  love-letter.  She  added,  with 
her  accustomed  spleen,  that  no  doubt  he  would  be 
shortly  leaving  Homer  Cottage  in  order  to  be  married. 

The  letter  was  from  Hummerstone.  "  And  now," 
Lowood  told  himself,  "  now  the  problem  will  be  laid! 
But  I  am  prepared  to  stake  all  I  possess  in  the  world 
that  Hestroyde  and  not  Legh  is  young  Munnings." 

Despite  the  many  inconsistences  of  human  nature 
there  is  a  great  deal  of  consistency  about  individuals. 
Although  it  is  false  to  say  that  men  are  "  much  of  a 
muchness,"  it  is  true  that  a  particular  man  is  much 
of  a  muchness.  There  are  persons  whose  comings 
and  goings  and  doings  and  writings  are  ever  a  boon 
and  a  pleasure  to  others.  There  are  persons  from 
whom  in  one's  whole  experience  of  them  no  grain  of 
pleasure  or  of  profit  can  be  reckoned. 

Hummerstone  was  one  of  these.  He  came  always 
empty-handed,  although  he  at  times  went  away  with 


140  The  Whips  of  Time 

both  hands  full.  Cheer  flowed  less  cheerfully  for  his 
presence,  depression  became  gloom,  irritability  exas- 
peration, grief  a  squalid  calamity.  As  there  are  men 
and  women  who  are  springs  of  benign  influence  in 
the  social  desert,  so  there  are  men  and  women  who 
appear  to  radiate  malign  forces. 

Lowood  had  long  since  recognised  this  untoward 
characteristic  of  Hummerstone's.  And  yet  out  of  his 
sanguine  temperament  he  now  opened  his  letter  with 
pleased  expectancy. 

Having  read,  he  laid  it  down  in  a  rage.  How  did 
the  man  maintain  his  circulation?  How  did  it  happen 
that  his  blood  did  not  freeze  in  that  ice-box  he  called 
his  heart,  freeze  and  extend  along  his  blood-vessels 
in  icicles?  Hummerstone  expressed  the  month  of  a 
year  in  Roman  numerals,  the  day  of  the  month  in  a 
figure  which  was  little  larger  than  a  dot. 

He  addressed  his  friend  as  "  Dear  Lowd."  He 
signed  himself  "  T.  H'stone."  He  refused  point-blank 
and  with  no  mitigations  to  reveal  the  identity  of  the 
changed  infants.  An  accident  so  insignificant  as 
parentage,  he  said,  was  scientifically  immaterial.  The 
subject  had  ceased  to  interest  him. 

By  the  time  he  had  come  to  the  signature,  Lowood 
knew  that  his  decision  was  final,  that  sooner  would 
he  squeeze  blood  out  of  a  stone  than  a  confidence  from 
"  T.  H'stone."  In  a  fit  of  savage  disappointment  he 
thrust  the  letter  into  the  fire  and  whimsically  looked 
to  see  it  extinguish  the  flames. 

"  Old  Microbe !  "  broke  in  Polly,  suddenly,  unearth- 
ing a  word  which  had  long  lain  buried  in  the  strange 
yet  subtle  thimbleful  of  intelligence  which  was  her 
brain. 

"  Ah,  Polly !  Polly !  "  her  master  apostrophised  her, 
"  are  you  a  clever  witch  or  merely  a  mechanical  fool  ? 
In  the  old  days  Hummerstone  never  came  in  that  you 
did  not  greet  him  as  *  Old  Microbe.'  I  have  never 
heard  you  say  it  since  he  ceased  to  come.  Did  some 


A  Letter  from  Hummerstone          141 

strange  emanation  from  his  letter  recall  him  to  your 
absurd  mind?  " 

But  Polly  refused  always  to  be  drawn  into  meta- 
physical discussions. 

She  merely  reiterated,  "  Old  Microbe !  "  with  the 
same  unmistakable  dislike  she  had  always  shown  for 
Hummerstone  in  the  flesh. 


CHAPTER    XVI 

A    LUNCHEON    PARTY 

IT  has  been  said,  since  it  has  become  the  fashion  to 
cut  ourselves  adrift  from  Divinity,  that  man  proposes 
and  woman  disposes. 

Of  the  truth  of  the  paraphrase  Lowood  had  evidence 
at  a  little  luncheon-party  to  which  he  had  invited  Legh 
and  Hestroyde  and  Miss  Kesteven,  with  the  vicar  and 
his  wife  for  chaperons.  The  vicar  having  to  attend 
a  meeting  of  churchwardens,  his  wife  came  alone.  She 
was  a  large  and  muscular  person  who  had  been  com- 
pelled to  exchange  her  womanly  qualities  for  the 
muscular  ability  to  tramp  from  end  to  end  of  a  large 
and  straggling  parish.  The  result  was  that  by  the  time 
she  had  developed  the  muscles  and  strength  which  were 
needed  to  visit  all  her  parishioners,  she  had  lost  every 
vestige  of  the  personal  influence  and  culture  which 
would  have  made  her  visits  of  value.  Lowood  disliked 
her  intensely.  Her  loud  laugh  and  coarse  personality 
offended  his  fastidiousness  at  every  turn.  Lady  Kes- 
teven, however,  whose  fine  and  cultured  qualities  would 
have  lent  distinction  to  the  party,  was  too  delicate  for 
parties. 

Lydia  cooked  well  and  Vox  wa*s  an  invaluable  serv- 
ant. The  little  function  would  have  passed  off  excel- 
lently had  not  a  wicked  spirit  of  contrariety  entered 
into  Joan  and  set  her  playing  off  her  two  admirers  one 
against  the  other.  The  spirit  was  no  doubt  roused  by 
an  honest  endeavour  on  Legh's  part  to  do  that  which 
he  would  have  described  as  "  shutting  down  like  a  ton 


A  Luncheon  Party  143 

of  bricks  "  upon  his  sentiment  for  her.  Her  quick 
wits  soon  found  a  change  in  him,  his  studied  coolness, 
his  embarrassed  silence,  his  averted  eyes.  Lowood 
saw,  by  some  hot-tempered  glances  she  cast  at  Hes- 
troyde,  that  she  believed  Legh's  attitude  to  be  the 
outcome  of  an  interference  on  her  lover's  part.  It 
acted  like  a  call  to  arms.  She  plied  every  weapon  in 
her  armoury  to  circumvent  what  she  regarded  as  his 
unwarrantable  interference.  She  devoted  herself 
almost  wholly  to  Legh,  scarcely  answering  Hestroyde 
when  he  addressed  her,  scarcely  looking  at  him,  and 
when  looking,  arming  her  eyes  with  coldness  or 
hostility. 

Lowood,  seeing  Hestroyde's  temper  rising,  did  all  he 
could  to  outwit  her  and  to  give  a  general  and  genial 
turn  to  the  conversation.  He  succeeded  in  part.  She 
rallied  with  spirit  to  his  whimsical  attacks.  She  opened 
fire  upon  him  from  her  green,  attractive  eyes.  All 
would  have  been  well  had  not  Mrs.  Plumpton,  all  at 
once  divining  a  delicate  situation,  put  a  large  foot 
(hypertrophied  by  trudging)  into  it. 

"  Why,"  she  protested  with  a  heavy  archness,  "  one 
might  think  it  was  Mr.  Legh  and  not  Mr.  Hestroyde 
you  were  engaged  to,  Miss  Joan.  Poor  Mr.  Hes- 
troyde hasn't  had  a  show.  No  wonder  he  looks  like 
a  thundercloud." 

In  a  moment  the  thundercloud  she  pointed  out  in 
Hestroyde's  face  burst  over  the  table. 

"  Joan  is  making  the  most  of  her  time,"  he  broke  out 
savagely.  "  For  I'll  be  hanged  if  I'll  have  my  wife 
flirting  with  every  Dick  and  Tom  and  Harry  as  some 
men  do." 

It  was  a  coarse  speech,  and  did  not  match  his  person- 
ality or  qualities.  But  jealousy  of  all  the  passions  stirs 
men's  crudest  depths.  Lowood  could  see  he  was  beside 
himself  with  seething  mortification. 

There  was  a  moment  of  dead  silence.  Joan's  heavy 
lids  narrowed  over  a  curious  flattening  which  came 


144  The  Whips  of  Time 

into  her  eyes.  She  turned  with  a  sinuous,  strong  grace 
to  Hestroyde. 

"  How  would  you  prevent  her?  "  she  inquired  with 
scathing  quietness. 

Their  eyes  met  in  hot  hostility,  her  pupils  dilating 
and  contracting  like  living  things  in  two  green  pools, 
his  fulminating  light  and  darkness.  He  controlled 
himself  before  replying.  He  forced  a  laugh. 

"  Oh !  I  expect  I'd  strangle  her,"  he  said  lightly. 
But  at  the  end  of  his  light  tone  came  a  little  weary 
drag  of  hoarseness  as  though  the  man  were  goaded  to 
his  limits.  His  eyes  dwelled  on  her  with  savage  fond- 
ness. 

The  effect  was  instantaneous.  While  Mrs.  Plump- 
ton  was  forging  another  Malaprop  bolt  in  her  black- 
smith brain,  and  Lowood  was  wondering  whether  he 
would  ever  be  forgiven  in  the  parish  if  he  were 
suddenly  to  clap  a  hand  before  her  stupid  mouth,  Joan 
became  transformed. 

Her  lids  parted,  the  palpitating  creatures  in  the 
green  pools  lay  still,  while  a  streak  of  light,  a  scintilla- 
tion as  it  seemed  from  the  angry  fires  of  his,  was 
mirrored  on  their  surfaces.  With  a  strange  rigidity  of 
her  supple  body,  as  of  one  hypnotised,  she  leaned  to 
him.  Lowood  had  seated  them  together,  with  Legh 
and  Mrs.  Plumpton  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  table. 
Forgetting  the  presence  of  the  others  Joan  suddenly 
dropped  her  head  and  set  a  cheek  against  his  shoulder 
with  a  passionate,  clinging  gesture. 

"  Poor  Mark !  "  she  murmured  in  a  cooing  voice, 
"  how  cross  he  is !  "  Her  voice  dropped  to  a  whisper- 
ing thread.  "  And  all  about  nothing  —  nothing  at  all." 

Nobody  who  had  seen  the  action,  had  seen  the  com- 
plete surrender  of  her  and  had  heard  that  cadence  in 
her  voice,  generally  so  crisp  and  decisive,  could  have 
doubted  that  she  loved  him,  that  she  felt  in  him  her 
mate. 

Legh  saw  it.    His  eyes  grew  blank,  and  at  the  same 


A  Luncheon  Party  145 

time  guilty,  as  he  realised  how  he  had  fallen  away  from 
his  resolutions.  Hestroyde  saw  it.  The  anger  died 
from  his  eyes  as  they  looked  down  melting  to  her  face. 
Lowood  saw  it,  and  by  the  light  of  what  it  told  him 
was  presently  amazed  with  an  inexplicable  astonish- 
ment at  something  that  was  soon  to  happen.  Even 
Mrs.  Plumpton  gleaned  an  inkling  of  a  feeling  she 
could  only  dimly  comprehend,  and  by  her  silence  pre- 
served Lowood  from  his  unpardonable  impulse  to  clap 
a  hand  before  his  guest's  mouth. 

Joan  first  recovered  herself.  She  swung  herself 
upright.  Her  full  lips  parted  upon  her  fine  teeth. 

"  There  now,"  she  cried  banteringly,  "  I  have  paci- 
fied the  monster,  or  he  would  have  devoured  us  all." 
She  shook  a  playful  finger  at  him. 

"  Really,  Mark,"  she  cried,  "  if  you  are  so  fierce  I 
shall  be  quite  afraid  to  marry  you." 

The  thunderstorm  passed  into  sunshine.  His  face 
beamed  fondness.  He  looked  at  her  in  silence.  Legh 
bit  his  lip,  crestfallen. 

And  then,  before  Lowood  had  time  to  stop  her  stupid 
mouth,  Mrs.  Plumpton  had  launched  her  second  bolt. 

"  That's  right,  Mr.  Hestroyde,"  she  bade  him 
sturdily.  "  Keep  her  in  order.  You  remember  the 
proverb,  '  Women  and  spaniels  and  walnut  trees.'  Now 
if  Captain  Wood  had  only  put  down  his  foot  from  the 
first  and  shown  Sir  William  the  door  —  " 

"  But  I  cannot  believe  you  don't  smoke,  Mrs. 
Plumpton,"  Lowood  broke  in,  thrusting  a  cigarette-box 
under  her  eyes.  "  Really,  you  should  sometimes  take 
a  cigarette.  It  is  an  excellent  substitute  for  talking. 
And  I  can  recommend  these.  Or  perhaps  you  prefer 
something  stronger  or  something  milder.  Mr.  Plump- 
ton  smokes,  does  he  not?  As  a  doctor  I  can 
recommend  an  after-dinner  cigarette  to  promote 
sleep." 

"  Law !  Dr.  Lowood !  "  she  exclaimed,  foundering 
beneath  his  torrent  of  remarks,  "  I  smoke  —  a  par- 


146  The  Whips  of  Time 

son's  wife!  A  pretty  example  that  would  be  to  set 
the  parish." 

She  put  up  a  hand  to  her  bewildered  head.  "  I  de- 
clare I  quite  forget  what  I  was  saying." 

"  You  were  admiring  my  parrot,"  Lowood  affirmed 
mendaciously.  "  I  quite  agree  with  you.  She  really  is 
a  very  clever  bird,  and  she  makes  most  appropriate 
observations.  There  are  human  beings,"  he  persisted 
slily,  "  who  have  a  knack  of  saying  the  wrong  thing. 
Now  Polly  never  does  this.  Her  discretion  is  singu- 
lar." 

"  Indeed,"  Mrs.  Plumpton  said,  emerging  with  a 
drenched  demeanour  from  the  torrent. 

Even  then  she  made  another  effort  to  recall  the 
subject.  Failing,  she  accepted  that  he  substituted. 

"  Yes,  she  looks  a  clever  parrot.  But  they  shriek 
so.  I  can't  bear  them  for  that.  It's  like  a  knife  run- 
ning through  one's  head." 

Polly,  rinding  herself  an  object  of  regard,  mildly 
recommended  pills  and  relapsed  into  a  gracious 
silence. 

The  party  broke  up  early.  While  the  men  were  still 
smoking,  Joan  also,  with  a  challenging  eye  on  Hes- 
troyde,  puffing  with  bravado  at  one  of  the  cigarettes 
Lowood  had  pressed  upon  the  vicaress,  the  vicaress 
rose  and  observed  that  she  must  really  be  going. 

She  apologised  for  disturbing  the  party.  By  sun- 
dry half  sentences  and  a  species  of  indelicacy  with 
which  she  endeavoured  to  convey  the  fact  that  she  was 
too  delicate-minded  to  state  the  reason  openly,  she 
made  it  appear  that  she  was  bound  upon  some  shady 
and  discreditable  mission.  In  point  of  fact  she  was, 
at  great  outlay  of  muscular  effort  and  with  credit  to 
her  heart  and  sense  of  duty,  merely  going  to  visit  a 
poor  woman  of  her  husband's  parish  who  had  that 
morning  given  birth  to  twins. 

"  Come,  Miss  Joan,"  she  urged,  "  I  will  see  you 
safely  off  the  premises  before  I  go." 


A  Luncheon  Party  147 

Joan  looked  at  her  defiantly. 

"  Why,"  she  said  sturdily,  "  Dr.  Lowood  can  chap- 
eron me  —  Dr.  Lowood  and  his  Mrs.  Polly.  Polly 
is  as  old  as  Methuselah  and  as  wise  as  Solomon. 
Aren't  you,  Miss  Polly  ?  " 

To  which  Polly  retorted,  in  a  tone  of  astonishment : 
"  Oh,  dear!  what  can  the  matter  be?  " 

Joan  laughed. 

"  Even  Polly  thinks  you  are  making  an  unnecessary 
fuss,  Mrs.  Plumpton,  and  that  I  may  be  allowed  to 
finish  my  cigarette  and  coffee." 

But  Mrs.  Plumpton's  sense  of  duty  would  not  allow 
her  to  finish  it  unchaperoned.  She  reseated  herself. 

"  I  promised  Lady  Kesteven  to  look  after  you,  Miss 
Joan,  and  I'll  not  leave  till  I  have  seen  you  safely  off 
the  premises." 

Joan  was  chagrined.  "  That  is  what  the  policemen 
say  to  burglars,"  she  observed  in  a  disgusted  voice. 
"  Very  well  then,  since  you  insist  upon  being  my 
keeper  you  will  have  to  wait  until  your  lunatic  is 
ready." 

But  Mrs.  Plumpton  did  not  wait  graciously.  Her 
impatience  to  depart,  expressed  in  fidgetings  and 
smothered  exclamations,  created  an  uncomfortable 
atmosphere.  Joan  soon  sprang  to  her  feet. 

"Oh,  well!  I  am  ready,"  she  said  crossly;  "but  I 
will  never  forgive  you  for  being  so  disagreeable.  I 
should  have  loved  to  tell  people  I  go  to  bachelors' 
smoking-parties  at  which  I  am  the  only  woman." 

In  her  gay  fashion  she  swung  across  the  room  and, 
taking  her  stand  before  a  mirror,  leisurely  tilted  her 
very  becoming  hat  to  another  angle  and  rearranged 
the  curls  upon  her  brows.  With  her  shapely,  supple 
back  swaying  to  the  movements  of  her  lifted  arms  she 
carried  on  a  fire  of  talk  and  laughing  observations, 
under  cover  of  which  Mrs.  Plumpton  conveyed  to 
Dr.  Lowood  that  Lady  Kesteven  had  been  anxious 
about  the  girl  since  she  had  detected  her  at  sixteen 


148  The  Whips  of  Time 

in  an  outrageous  flirtation  with  a  good-looking  groom, 
and  that  she  had  even  written  love-letters  to  him, 
for  the  return  of  which  her  mother  had  been  compelled 
to  pay  the  good-looking  groom  a  considerable  sum, 
which  she  would  not  commit  to  figures,  not  having 
proper  authority  for  it.  She  thought  Lady  Kesteven 
would  be  glad  to  see  her  safely  married.  Being  such 
an  invalid  she  could  not  herself  go  about  with  and 
look  after  her. 

As  all  were  to  walk  to  their  respective  homes  Lo- 
wood  joined  the  party.  Joan's  vicaress  left  them  at 
the  gate,  her  indelicate  mission  lying  in  an  opposite 
direction.  Lowood  and  Legh  dropped  behind,  the  lov- 
ers walking  in  advance,  Legh  casting  covetous  glances 
forward  at  them  as  they  showed  talking  and  laughing 
affectionately. 

"  If  I  hadn't  arranged  for  a  number  of  shoots  at 
Hooton,"  he  said  in  a  stifling  voice,  "  I'd  get  away  for 
a  bit.  Isn't  she  clinking?  She's  just  full  of  life  and 
spirits." 

"  She's  a  nice  girl,"  Lowood  admitted,  "  but  —  " 
He  broke  off  short.  He  had  been  about  to  say  that 
he  knew  one  more  to  his  taste,  a  memory  of  Alma 
Wenlith  and  her  sensitive,  interesting  face  for  the 
moment  effacing  Joan's  robuster  charms.  Seeing  them 
together  as  he  had  done,  Joan's  animal  health  and 
colouring  had  suffered  by  contrast  with  Miss  Wenlith's 
more  spirituelle  quality. 

But  the  same  moment  which  suggested  Miss 
Wenlith  as  a  substitute  for  Joan  in  Legh's  affections 
reminded  him  also  that  the  girl's  unfortunate  position 
placed  her  out  of  the  running.  Few  men  would  have 
been  willing  to  take  for  wife  a  niece  of  Mrs.  Beau- 
mont of  Moonbank. 

"  I  think  I  have  before  told  you,"  he  said  instead, 
"  that  there  are  numbers  of  charming  girls  in  the 
world." 

"  Not  numbers,   I  think,"  Legh  insisted  seriously. 


A  Luncheon  Party  149 

'  There  are  a  good  many  girls  a  man  considers  nice, 
but  when  he  begins  to  pin  himself  down  to  any  one  of 
them  he  finds  that  although  he  might  possibly  be  happy 
enough  with  any  one  of  them  he  can  be  just  as  happy 
without  her." 

As  Hestroyde  wished  to  show  Joan  a  new  dairy  he 
had  had  built  for  her,  they  went  round  by  Mowbreck. 
The  dairy  was  charming.  Joan's  green  eyes  sparkled 
upon  it.  Nevertheless : 

'  You  stupid  boy,"  she  scolded  him,  "  you've  been 
horribly  extravagant." 

His  face  fell.  It  was  true.  Some  beautifully 
painted  tiles  he  had  ordered  had  come  to  a  much 
larger  sum  than  he  had  anticipated.  And  his  means 
were  narrow.  Her  sharp  eyes  detected  his  fall  of 
expression. 

"  Look  here,"  she  broke  out  heartily,  "  I  will  —  " 

But  in  presence  of  the  scowl  which  immediately 
darkened  his  face  even  her  hardihood  failed.  He 
forestalled  what  he  guessed  to  be  coming  by  suddenly 
heading  out  of  the  dairy. 

"  We  had  better  get  on,"  he  said  brusquely. 

Beyond  the  farm  stood  four  fine  corn-ricks.  Hes- 
troyde, pointing  to  them,  called  back  to  Legh : 

"  After  all,  I  haven't  sold  them.  I  took  your  advice 
and  insured  them  heavily.  I'm  afraid  I'm  booked  for 
a  big  loss." 

Legh  explained  that  there  being  a  local  tradition  to 
the  effect  that  about  every  thirty  years  every  man  was 
liable  to  suffer  from  fire,  and  Mowbreck  having  es- 
caped for  thirty-seven  years,  he  had  persuaded  Hes- 
troyde, contrary  to  his  habit,  to  insure  these  ricks. 
This  he  had  done  rather  heavily,  so  increasing  his  loss 
should  he  fail  to  sell  them. 

When  they  arrived  at  The  Folly  Joan  invited  the 
party  in  to  tea.  All  declined.  Lowood  had  letters  to 
write.  Hestroyde  had  an  engagement  with  his  lawyer. 
Legh,  the  only  one  without  an  adequate  excuse,  mut- 


150  The  Whips  of  Time 

tered  something  about  a  dog.  Joan  was  offended. 
With  her  eyes  on  Hestroyde  she  caught  Legh  by  an 
arm. 

"  Now,  don't  fib,  Bobby,"  she  said.  "  Do  come  in 
and  keep  me  company.  I  shall  be  all  by  myself." 

Legh  half  yielded,  then  made  a  final  effort  of  resist- 
ance. 

"  Honour  bright,  Joan,"  he  said,  "  I  really  can't. 
I  must  see  the  vet.  about  old  Towzer." 

In  a  moment  her  laughing  mood  had  gone. 

"  Dr.  Lowood  is  horrid,"  she  said  vehemently.  "  I'll 
never  lunch  with  him  again.  And  you  two  are  simply 
vile  with  your  rotten  excuses." 

She  turned  on  her  heel  and  went  in  angrily. 

Lowood  had  seen  Hestroyde  stiffen  with  jealous 
rage  when  she  caught  Legh's  arm.  He  now  took  a 
sullen  leave  of  them  and  walked  back  alone  over  the 
hill. 


THE    BECLOAKED,    FURRED    FIGURE    OF    A    WOMAN    HALF    RUSHED, 
HALF    FELL,   INTO   THE    ROOM. 

{.Page  151 


CHAPTER    XVII 
FIRE! 

A  FEW  evenings  later,  as  Lowood*5at  drawn  up  to  a  big 
fire,  the  night  being  desperately  cold,  there  came  a  quick 
tapping  as  of  agitated  fingers  on  the  window  panes. 
Before  he  could  make  up  his  mind  as  to  whether  the 
sound  was  a  fact  or  a  mere  trick  of  idle  fancy,  it  was 
repeated.  This  time  he  could  not  doubt  it.  Quickly  he 
rose  and  opened  the  long  casement  window.  The  be- 
cloaked,  furred  figure  of  a  woman  half  rushed  with  a 
biting  blast,  half  fell,  into  the  room. 

"  Oh,  let  me  in,"  she  faltered  in  agitated  gasps. 
"  I'm  just  frozen.  Please  give  me  some  wine  or  some- 
thing." 

She  swept  shivering  to  the  fire.  She  knelt  before  it, 
panting  and  thrusting  her  jerking,  ungloved  hands 
close  down  upon  it.  She  was  trembling  from  head  to 
foot.  At  intervals  a  shuddering  movement  as  of  cold 
or  of  supreme  agitation  shook  her. 

"  Miss  Kesteven !  "  he  exclaimed,  amazed.  "  Are 
you  alone?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  said.  "  Oh,  please  give  me  some  wine, 
I  am  perishing  with  cold.  This  fire  is 'delicious,  de- 
licious !  " 

She  crouched  lower  upon  it,  rubbing  and  warming 
her  empurpled  hands  and  drawing  in  deep  draughts  of 
the  warm  air. 

"  It  will  be  worth  waiting  for  a  minute  or  two,"  he 
told  her  as  he  replaced  on  the  fire  the  small  kettle  from 
which  he  had  mixed  his  nightly  draught  of  hot  water 
and  whisky.  He  lighted  a  candle  and  went  to  the 


152  The  Whips  of  Time 

dining-room  for  port  wine  and  a  tumbler.  By  the  time 
he  returned  she  was  recovering.  Her  breath  came 
more  calmly. 

"  I  can  quite  believe,"  she  said,  turning  to  him  with 
a  lively  laugh,  "  that  in  Arctic  places  the  parsons 
frighten  the  people  into  being  good  by  preaching  that 
the  wicked  place  is  snow  and  ice  instead  of  fire.  Cold 
is  more  awful  than  heat." 

The  kettle  now  began  to  sing  and  to  puff  a  steamy, 
pleasant  breath.  He  had  soon  prepared  for  her  a 
tumbler  of  steaming  wine-negus.  She  drank  deeply. 

"  That's  clinking,"  she  said. 

She  knelt,  clasping  the  warm  glass  in  both  hands. 
Then  at  his  bidding  she  took  the  cosy  chair  he  had 
vacated.  After  another  long  draught  of  the  warm, 
fragrant  mixture  she  emitted  a  sigh  of  satisfaction, 
and  leaned  back  her  head  luxuriously  among  the  cush- 
ions. Another  draught,  and  she  put  down  the  empty 
glass  upon  the  table.  Then  she  turned  up  a  slightly 
smiling  face,  from  which  the  pinched  colourlessness 
was  slowly  melting  again  into  roundness  and  pinkness. 

"  I  suppose  I  must  explain,"  she  said.  She  glanced 
about  the  room.  Her  eyes  lighted  upon  a  small  old- 
fashioned  clock  upon  the  mantelpiece.  "  Of  course 
this  is  shockingly  improper.  What  would  Mrs. 
Plumpton  say?  " 

"  She  would  be  duly  scandalised,  of  course,"  Lowood 
said.  He  awaited  her  explanation.  It  cannot  be  said 
that  he  himself  was  wholly  free  from  the  emotion  he 
imputed  to  Mrs.  Plumpton. 

She  turned  up  her  green  eyes,  shining  in  the  lamp- 
light. 

"  I've  been  at  Moonbank,"  she  told  him  with  a 
challenging  air.  "  Mother  had  had  a  bad  day  and 
went  to  bed  early.  It  was  dull.  I  had  nobody  to  talk 
to,  so  I  wrapped  up  and  stole  through  the  pass.  By 
the  pass  it  is  only  about  half  a  mile,  you  know,  between 
our  house  and  Moonbank." 


Firel  153 

"  You  chose  a  cold  night  for  your  expedition." 

She  shook  her  head,  laughing. 

"  I  didn't  choose  it.  I  should  have  preferred  a 
warmer  one,  but  when  the  whim  takes  me  I  go." 

"  But  how  in  the  world  do  you  come  to  be  here? 
Why  didn't  you  take  the  short  cut  back  again,  instead 
of  coming  round  miles  out  of  your  way?  " 

Her  eyes  went  back  to  the  fire.  She  sat  silent,  her 
face  averted.  Then  she  laughed  again  with  some  em- 
barrassment. 

"  Oh,  another  whim ! "  she  said  after  a  pause. 
"  The  air  seemed  lovely  when  I  left  Moonbank  —  crisp 
and  bracing,  and  I  was  warm  and  full  of  energy.  It 
seemed  tame  to  go  straight  home  to  bed.  I  thought 
I  would  stroll  round  by  Mowbreck,  I  wanted  to  look 
at  the  house  by  moonlight.  It  was  just  a  whim.  And 
then  —  " 

She  caught  herself  up  sharply.  She  faced  about 
and  fixed  her  shining  eyes  upon  him  strangely. 

"  That's  all,"  she  said  suddenly.  "  There  isn't  any 
more." 

He  became  immediately  aware  that  she  was  keeping 
back  the  most  important  part  of  her  adventure.  His 
conviction  of  her  as  a  dangerous  young  woman  was 
confirmed. 

"  Well,  now,"  he  said,  rising,  "  I  must  see  you  home. 
You  are  thoroughly  warmed,  and  the  sooner  you  are 
in  bed  with  a  hot  bottle  to  your  feet  the  better." 

She  did  not  rise,  however.  The  light  and  animation 
left  her  face.  A  curious  lethargy  stole  over  her.  The 
stimulating  action  of  the  wine  was  passing.  And  with 
its  passing  she  was  relapsing  into  a  state  of  nervous 
depression  in  which  she  had  flown  shivering  to  his  fire. 
Exposure  to  cold,  and  it  occurred  to  him  some  emo- 
tional shock,  were  at  work  in  her. 

All  at  once,  to  his  astonishment,  she  began  to  sob 
and  tremble.  She  looked  wildly  about  her.  She 
jumped  up  and  went  to  the  window,  and  eagerly  push- 


154  The  Whips  of  Time 

ing  back  the  blind  stared  out.  She  returned  and 
dropped  again  into  her  chair. 

"  It  was  simply  horrible,  horrible !  "  she  cried,  shud- 
dering. "  I  shall  never  forget  it.  All  flaring  and 
flaring!" 

Lowood  went  over  and  laid  a  hand  upon  her 
shoulder. 

"  Miss  Kesteven,"  he  said,  "  you  are  keeping  some- 
thing from  me.  You  may  count  upon  my  confidence 
and  help  if  there  is  any  good  to  be  got  by  telling  me." 

She  threw  up  her  head. 

"  Why  do  you  say  I  am  keeping  back  something  ?  " 

"  I  think  so,"  he  answered. 

She  paled.     Her  eyes  filled  with  angry  fear. 

"  What  is  it  you  think?  "  she  cried  vehemently.  "  I 
have  said  nothing." 

Then  she  controlled  herself. 

"  It  is  true,"  she  confessed.  "  There  is  something 
more,  but  —  can  I  trust  you  ?  " 

He  told  her  "  Yes." 

Still  she  hesitated.    Then: 

"  Oh,  I  must  tell  somebody,"  she  cried  out.  She 
turned  back  to  the  fire  and  began  to  speak. 

"  I  saw  Mowbreck,"  she  said  quickly.  "  It  looked 
fine  and  imposing  in  the  moonlight.  It  stood  like  a 
block.  Everything  was  quiet,  and  there  was  nobody 
about.  There  were  lights  only  in  a  few  of  the  win- 
dows. I  walked  about  a  little  looking  at  the  house. 
Then  I  heard  a  dog  howl  —  a  horrid  howl.  I  didn't 
like  it.  I  thought  I  would  get  home  as  fast  as  I  could. 
But  I  had  to  pass  the  ricks  —  you  remember  those 
four  ricks  Mark  pointed  out  to  Bobby  Legh  the  other 
day?" 

"  I  remember,"  Lowood  said.  "  He  had  insured 
them  heavily." 

Her  eyes  transfixed  him  with  a  curious  startled  look. 

"Had  he?"  she  said. 

There  was  a  long  pause.     He  heard  her  breath 


Fire!  155 

sweep  jerkily,  like  an  impeded  tide,  in  and  out  her 
lungs. 

"  I  think  you  are  mistaken,"  she  asserted  firmly. 

"  Well,"  he  said  lightly,  "  it  is  not  of  the  slightest 
consequence." 

After  another  pause : 

"  When  I  came  round  by  the  ricks  there  was  a  man 
there.  I  saw  him  plainly,  standing  in  the  moonlight. 
It  was  almost  as  light  as  day." 

Another  pause. 

"He  startled  you,  no  doubt." 

"  Yes,  he  startled  me,"  she  assented  tonelessly. 
Again  she  turned  and  looked  at  him. 

"  He  was  a  strange  man,"  she  went  on  rapidly.  "  A 
man  I  had  never  seen  before,  a  tramp.  He  was  not 
like  any  man  I  have  ever  seen  about  here  —  not  like 
any  of  the  farm  hands  or  any  of  Mark's  men.  He  was 
lame,  very  lame.  He  must  have  had  a  club  foot  or 
something  of  that  sort.  He  limped  when  he  walked, 
limped  very  badly.  I  could  not  help  noticing  it." 

"  Did  he  see  you  ?  " 

She  waited  before  she  spoke.  Then  she  said 
decisively : 

"  No.  As  soon  as  I  saw  him  I  slipped  behind  the  big 
barn.  You  see,  I  was  afraid  of  him.  He  was  a 
strange,  rough-looking  man,  with  a  great  beard  and 
a  red  necktie,  and  ragged  clothes.  And  I  was  afraid 
of  him." 

"  No  wonder,"  Lowood  said.  "  What  was  he  doing 
there?" 

There  was  a  very  long  pause.  Then  she  stated 
firmly: 

"  He  was  setting  fire  to  the  ricks." 

"  Good  Lord !  "  Lowood  said  excitedly,  "  do  you 
mean  that  he  succeeded  or  that  he  only  attempted  to 
fire  them  ?  " 

Again  he  overheard  the  tide  of  air  passing  and  re- 
passing  harshly  in  her  chest. 


156  The  Whips  of  Time 

"  I  think  he  succeeded,"  she  answered.  "  It  was  all 
flaming  when  I  ran  away.  I  was  frightened  when  I 
saw  it  flaring,  and  I  ran  away." 

"But  didn't  you  go  to  the  house?"  he  protested. 
"  Didn't  you  raise  an  alarm?  " 

"  No,"  she  said,  "  I  just  ran  away  without  thinking 
of  anything  else.  I  was  too  frightened  for  words 
when  I  saw  it  all  blazing.  And  I  just  ran  without  even 
thinking  of  where  I  was  running.  It  wasn't  till  I  got 
to  your  gate  and  saw  a  light  that  I  felt  I  couldn't  run 
any  longer.  I  felt  I  should  drop  in  the  road." 

"And  you  left  the  ricks  burning?"  Lowood  said. 
"How  did  he  fire  them?" 

"  He  had  a  bottle  of  paraffin.  He  pulled  out  great 
handfuls  of  straw  from  the  side  of  a  rick  until  there 
was  a  hollow  space.  Then  he  soaked  it  with  paraffin 
and  lighted  a  box  of  matches  and  threw  it  in.  It  flared 
up  ever  so  high." 

"  Incendiarism !  But,  bless  my  soul !  by  this  time 
the  whole  thing  may  be  ablaze." 

He  got  to  his  feet. 

"  I  must  give  an  alarm.  One  can't  sit  down  over  a 
thing  like  this.  If  he  failed  first  the  ruffian  will  try 
again.  It  may  mean  a  heavy  loss." 

"  But  the  ricks  were  insured,"  she  said  in  a  sup- 
pressed voice. 

Suddenly  a  horrible  suspicion  darted  into  Lowood's 
mind.  He  thrust  it  away.  What  was  this  story  of 
a  tramp?  Incendiarism  had  always  some  motive  of 
profit  or  of  revenge.  What  reason  for  revenge  could 
a  tramp  and  a  stranger  have  against  Hestroyde  ?  What 
profit  could  result  to  a  stranger  and  a  tramp  from 
firing  Hestroyde's  ricks?  The  demon  of  suspicion 
added,  Nobody  but  Hestroyde  would  profit.  The 
notion  was  unthinkable,  and  yet  it  persisted.  He 
recalled  the  young  man's  words.  He  had  heard  that 
he  was  short  of  money,  and  that  his  approaching 
marriage  had  entailed  heavy  expenses  upon  him.  The 


Fire!  157 

suspicion  was  monstrous!  And  yet  for  the  life  of 
him  he  could  not  lay  it. 

Moreover,  there  was  something  strangely  forced 
and  artificial  in  Joan's  story;  she  seemed  all  the  while 
to  be  concealing  something.  And  why  had  she  so 
insisted  upon  the  personal  characteristics  of  the  tramp? 
Would  she  indeed  in  her  panic  —  coming  suddenly 
upon  him  in  the  lonely  night  —  have  noted  all  those 
details  of  his  clothes,  his  beard,  his  limp,  his  necktie? 
His  mind  gave  him  in  a  twinkling  a  more  probable 
and  deplorable  version  of  the  truth. 

Her  whim  taking  her,  as  she  had  said,  to  Mowbreck 
had  so  chimed  with  some  evil  turn  of  Hestroyde's 
destiny  as  to  bring  her  there  at  the  moment  when  he, 
in  order  to  recover  the  heavy  insurance,  was  firing  his 
own  ricks.  Her  circumstantial  description  of  the  tramp 
was  a  mere  blind  to  shield  the  real  culprit. 

She  still  further  aroused  his  suspicion. 

"  You  see,  besides  being  so  frightened,"  she  said, 
"  if  I  had  given  an  alarm  people  would  have  wondered 
—  all  sorts  of  things  might  have  been  said  —  about  my 
being  out  and  at  Mowbreck  at  that  time  of  night." 

It  was  true,  of  course,  but  it  was  obviously  not  the 
true  reason  of  her  silence.  In  her  panic  it  was  improb- 
able that  she  would  have  seen  this  aspect  of  the  case. 
There  was  a  far  more  probable  explanation.  Had  she 
given  the  alarm  her  lover  might  have  been  caught 
under  suspicious  circumstances.  He  felt  a  sudden 
strong  compassion  for  her  in  her  brave  and  quick- 
witted efforts  to  screen  him. 

The  stillness  of  the  night  was  suddenly  broken. 
Sound  rose  braying  on  the  air  and  set  it  shuddering. 
It  died  in  a  long-drawn  wail.  Again  it  rose,  again  died 
down.  Miss  Kesteven  half  sprang  from  her  chair  and 
sank  back  again  trembling  in  every  limb.  She  covered 
her  ears  with  her  hands. 

"  Oh,  what  is  it  ?  What  is  it  ?  "  she  gasped.  "  Does 
it  mean  danger  ?  " 


158  The  Whips  of  Time 

He  told  her  it  was  only  the  fire-alarm.  The  ricks 
were  evidently  burning. 

"  But  is  there  any  danger  —  to  anybody  ?  " 

He  thought  none  at  all ;  the  ricks  were  at  a  distance 
from  the  house.  She  grew  calmer. 

"  Dr.  Lowood,"  she  said,  "  people  in  the  house,  the 
Miss  Epithites,  or  the  servants,  may  be  coming  down. 
I  ought  to  slip  away  quietly  at  once.  How  could  I 
explain  being  here  at  this  time  of  night  ?  " 

"  You  are  right,"  he  said.  "  I'll  get  my  coat  and 
hat.  We  will  slip  out  by  the  dining-room  window  and 
across  the  orchard  to  the  road." 

He  was  considering  the  conventions.  But  her  next 
words  told  him  that  she  was  considering  something 
else. 

"  Nobody  must  know  a  word,"  she  said.  "  I  must 
not  be  brought  into  it  —  must  not  be  questioned. 
Oh,  there  is  that  horrible  shriek  again !  Do  let  us 
go." 

They  slipped  out  as  he  had  planned,  wisely,  for  the 
upper  window  of  the  annex  overlooked  the  path  before 
the  house,  and  as  they  crossed  the  orchard  he  heard  a 
window  flung  up  and  sharp,  excited  voices  in  discus- 
sion. For  from  the  moment  of  awakening  to  the 
Mowbreck  fire-hooter  a  keen  controversy  had  raged 
between  the  startled  ladies  as  to  whether  the  sound 
came  from  Simmonds'  farm  or  from  the  Riccalby 
Town  Hall. 

As  they  passed  through  a  gap  in  the  hedge  and  out 
upon  the  road  the  sky  over  Mowbreck  was  red  and 
angry-looking,  while  below  it  swelled  a  sullen  palpita- 
ting cloud  of  smoke,  fiercely  illumined  by  the  fire 
beneath.  Whiffs  of  the  odour  of  burning  came  to 
them. 

Lowood,  for  lack  of  feminine  apparel,  had  caught 
up  one  of  the  woollen  antimacassars  with  which  Homer 
Cottage  was  afflicted,  and  had  thrown  it  round  Joan's 
head. 


Fire!  159 

"  Fire  at  Mowbreck !  "  a  man  shouted  breathlessly 
as  he  ran  past  them. 

Suddenly  Joan  stopped. 

"  I  must  know  what  is  happening,"  she  panted.  "  I 
must  turn  back  and  find  out  what  is  happening  at 
Mowbreck." 

Lowood  would  not  hear  of  her  return.  Young  and 
vigorous  as  she  was  she  was  utterly  worn  out.  Only 
by  a  strong  effort  was  she  able  to  keep  going. 

"  Be  advised,"  he  said.  "  If  you  do  not  wish  to  be 
questioned  keep  out  of  the  whole  thing." 

She  made  conditions.  He  must  then  leave  her  to 
go  on  to  Mowbreck  and  must  send  her  an  immediate 
message.  He  did  not  like  leaving  her  to  find  her  way 
home  by  herself,  but  on  no  other  terms  would  she  go 
on. 

He  went  back  down  the  road.  When  he  rounded 
the  base  of  the  hill  between  Hooton  Hoo  and  Mow- 
breck he  found  the  whole  countryside  bathed  in  ruddy 
light,  which,  from  a  glowing  centre,  every  few  minutes 
extended  its  range.  Above  this  floated  a  large  canopy 
of  smoke,  rising  and  sinking,  swirling  and  eddying, 
to  the  wind  currents  and  to  draughts  created  by  the 
furnace  of  flame. 

The  road  was  as  light  as  upon  a  summer  evening. 
All  the  little  town  seemed  to  have  quitted  their  beds 
and  hastened  with  or  in  their  eagerness  raced  breath- 
lessly past  him  to  the  scene  of  action.  Some  talked 
and  laughed  excitedly.  Lowood,  who  had  for  some 
years  given  up  running,  found  himself  moving  with 
the  elder  portion  of  the  crowd,  who,  going  more  at 
their  leisure,  found  breath  to  exchange  comments.  All 
knew  —  for  news  travels  even  more  quickly  than  fire 
—  that  the  Mowbreck  ricks  were  alight,  that  the 
Riccalby  fire-engine  had  not  yet  arrived,  and  that  the 
flames  were  well  under  way,  but  so  long  as  the  wind 
kept  in  its  present  quarter  there  was  no  danger  to  the 
house. 


160  The  Whips  of  Time 

"  Insured,  I  suppose  ?  "  Lowood  heard  one  man 
inquire. 

"  Ah !  "  was  the  answer.    "  An'  they  do  say  heavily." 

But  there  was  no  significance  in  either  question  or 
answer. 

Lowood  arrived  on  the  scene  before  the  fire-engine 
had  done  so.  A  cordon  of  men  had  been  stationed 
between  a  pump  in  a  stable-yard  and  a  big  barn  which 
was  in  danger.  The  filled  buckets  were  passed  on 
rapidly  from  hand  to  hand  to  half  a  dozen  figures 
which  in  active  motion  stood  out  black  in  the  glare 
upon  the  barn  roof.  Over  this  they  dashed  their 
thimblefuls  of  water.  The  need  for  it  was  shown 
in  the  clouds  of  steam  which  rose  hissing  as  the  water 
flowed  over  the  hot  tiles. 

For  the  ricks  there  was  nothing  to  be  done.  By  this 
time  they  made  a  single  mass  of  roaring  flame,  which 
scorched  the  eyes  and  radiated  a  heat  so  intense  as  to 
make  proximity  impossible.  It  showed  like  some  evil 
contest,  as  of  vulture  and  doe,  this  swoop  of  the  fire- 
fiend  upon  the  kindly  innocent  fruits  of  the  earth. 
And  the  fiend  was  now  rending  and  devouring  with 
terrible  jaws  the  very  vitals  of  its  prey. 

Of  the  figures  on  the  roof  Lowood  presently  made 
out  one,  a  shapely,  active  frame,  more  agile,  more 
strenuous  and  more  venturesome  than  the  rest.  This 
was  Hestroyde,  who  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  begrimed 
and  with  rough  hair,  was  directing  by  word  and  by 
example  the  little  band  of  workers. 

Till  suddenly  a  cheer  and  shout  arose,  beginning 
feebly  in  the  distance  and  swelling  to  a  roar  which 
made  the  arrival  of  the  fire-engine  a  triumphal 
progress.  The  knot  of  people  swayed  and  broke.  The 
galloping  horses  dashed  through  importantly,  and 
came  suddenly  to  a  dramatic  standstill. 

In  three  minutes  a  thick  rope  of  water  was  coiling 
a  snaky  douche  upon  the  predatory  fiend.  The  monster 
hissed  and  spat  and  fumed,  but  he  desisted  no  whit 


Fire!  161 

from  his  task.  He  was  now  at  the  heart  of  his  gentle 
quarry.  The  ricks  were  doomed.  But  the  engine  was 
in  time  to  save  the  barn,  a  corner  of  which  had  begun 
to  send  up  a  plume  of  warning  smoke  amid  the  water 
streaming  down  it. 

With  the  arrival  of  the  engine  the  roof  cleared,  and 
Lowood  was  presently  joined  by  Hestroyde.  The 
young  man  seemed  pleasantly  excited.  He  mopped 
his  moist  and  grimy  face,  and  with  a  loss  of  his 
habitual  reserve  nodded  and  smiled  all  round,  thanking 
his  neighbours  for  their  willing  help  and  sympathy. 

"  It's  warm  work,"  he  told  Lowood,  cheerfully. 
"  So  you  left  your  bed  to  see  my  ricks  burn?  " 

"  Yes,"  Lowood  answered  laconically.  By  the  light 
of  what  he  suspected  the  young  man's  smiling  cheerful- 
ness appeared  to  be  needlessly  flippant. 

"  It's  a  decent  bit  of  luck  they're  well  insured," 
Hestroyde  went  on. 

As  Lowood  made  no  answer  he  moved  on  and  shook 
hands  with  Colonel  Tempest,  a  spruce  little  fresh- 
coloured  man,  who  now  came  up  as  well-brushed 
and  equipped  as  though  he  had  been  going  out  to 
lunch. 

"  Devil  of  a  business  this !  "  he  said ;  "  especially  as 
you  don't  insure." 

"  Luckily  I  did  this  time,"  Hestroyde  told  him.  He 
added,  with  what  Lowood  regarded  as  a  dangerous 
bravado,  "  Between  you  and  me,  this  will  be  a  good 
night's  work,  so  far  as  my  pocket  is  concerned." 

Lowood  drew  into  the  shadow  of  the  house  to  pencil 
and  despatch  a  note  to  Joan  Kesteven.  To  his  amaze- 
ment he  found  Legh  there.  He  seemed  to  be  suffering 
from  some  agitation.  Lowood  saw  that  he  kept  close 
within  the  shadow,  his  greatcoat  muffled  about  his  ears, 
as  of  a  man  wishing  to  pass  unrecognised.  Lowood 
wondered  that  being  there  he  had  not  been  among  the 
workers  on  the  barn  roof.  It  was  his  habit  to  be  ready 
and  foremost  in  all  activities. 


162  The  Whips  of  Time 

"  How  long  have  you  been  here?  "  he  asked.  "  I 
have  only  just  seen  you." 

The  young  man  started  like  one  roused  from  a 
dream. 

"  How  long  ?  "  he  repeated  mechanically.  "  Oh,  for 
some  time  —  for  a  long  time  in  fact.  I  hadn't  gone 
to  bed,  and  I  rode  down  as  soon  as  I  heard  the  alarm." 

"  You  were  not  with  the  bucket  brigade?  " 

"  The  buckets?  Oh,  no.  There  were  plenty  of 
hands." 

When  Lowood  presently  went  home  there  were  three 
subjects  in  his  speculative  mind.  The  first  was  a 
further  confirmation,  from  the  firing  of  the  ricks,  that 
Hestroyde  was  Munnings.  The  second  was  the  puzzle 
of  what  part  —  if  any  —  Legh  had  played  in  the 
affair,  or  if  merely  suspicion  of  his  friend  were  vexing 
him.  The  third  was  whether  Joan,  who,  he  could  not 
doubt,  had  caught  her  lover  in  the  act  of  arson,  would 
cast  him  off  indignantly. 


CHAPTER    XVIII 

THE   DUKE   OF    SAXBY 

ALMA  WENLITH  proved  herself  an  apt  pupil.  She 
found  with  astronomy  none  of  the  faults  she  had  found 
with  the  science  of  flowers.  As  Lowood  had  told  her, 
he  had  done  little  more  than  to  skim  the  surface  of 
popular  astronomy,  and  he  was  put  to  it  to  keep  up 
with  the  rapid  pace  of  her  absorbing  diligence. 

"  She  does  nothing  else,"  Mrs.  Beaumont,  still 
placidly  threading  her  many-coloured  beads,  informed 
him.  "  She  talks  all  day  of  horrerys  —  " 

"  Remember,  Auntie,"  Alma  insisted  with  a  little 
laugh,  "  no  aspirate." 

"  Oh  well,  then,  orreries,"  her  aunt  corrected  herself 
tranquilly,  "  orreries  and  telescopes  and  sextons." 

"  Sextants,"  Alma  again  corrected. 

"  Yes,  dear,  but  it's  all  the  same  to  me.  I  don't 
mean  to  fill  my  head  with  any  such  rubbish.  How  can 
they  possibly  know  it's  all  true,  of  things  that  are 
millions  of  miles  —  you  told  me  it  was  millions  of 
miles  away,  Alma.  And  I  can't  see  that  it  matters." 

"  But  it  is  so  interesting,  so  keenly  interesting," 
Alma  said.  "  When  we  have  finished  our  course  of 
evolution  on  this  planet  we  shall  go  to  others.  No 
doubt  we  shall,  before  we  have  finished,  have  lived 
numbers  of  lives  on  each.  Each  star  is  a  world 
inhabited  by  beings  like  ourselves,  or  unlike  ourselves. 
I  love  to  imagine  the  splendid  beings  with  wonderful 
powers,  living  wonderful  lives  in  grander  worlds  than 
ours.  Because,  compared  with  theirs,  our  poor  little 
world  is  only  a  dust  speck  and  we  are  ants  and  beetles." 

"  You  are  far  outstripping  your  astronomy-master," 


164  The  Whips  of  Time 

Lowood  told  her.  "  In  which  of  your  text-books  did 
you  find  all  this?" 

"  It  isn't  in  the  text-books.  But  Ball  plainly  thinks, 
and  Flammarion  is  sure,  that  the  planets  are  inhabited 
worlds,  and  when  you  know  that  it  is  easy  enough  to 
imagine  the  rest.  I  particularly  want  to  go  to  Saturn 
and  see  how  beautiful  his  belts  must  look.  And  some 
of  the  planets  have  two  suns  —  two  suns  of  different 
colours." 

Mrs.  Beaumont  regarded  her  with  puzzled  brows. 

"  This  is  how  she  talks  for  hours,"  she  said.  "  Last 
night  I  did  all  I  could  to  make  her  decide  whether  her 
new  dinner  frocks  shall  be  a  pink  one  and  a  green  one, 
or  a  maize  and  a  heliotrope.  She  was  so  taken  up 
with  the  colour  of  the  suns  of  Saturn  that  in  the  end 
I  had  to  choose  the  colours  of  her  frocks  myself." 

Alma  came  down  from  the  clouds. 

"  I  suppose  it  was  tiresome  of  me,"  she  apologised, 
"  but,  after  all,  it  was  safer  to  leave  it  to  you,  Auntie. 
You  understand  clothes  so  perfectly." 

"  A  good  thing  too,  my  dear,  or  you  would  make  a 
perfect  fright  of  yourself.  You  once  ordered  a  brown 
frock  trimmed  with  green.  It  set  my  teeth  on  edge." 

"  I  know,"  Alma  said.  "  It  was  hideous.  They 
put  on  the  wrong  green.  I  took  the  colouring  from 
some  leaves.  It  was  lovely  in  the  leaves." 

Lowood,  while  they  were  talking,  had  been  conscious 
of  an  undercurrent  of  bustle  in  the  house.  The  door 
opened  and  a  short,  red-fated  man  with  an  important 
manner  entered.  One  moment  his  eyes  went  to  the 
beautiful  woman  threading  beads  beside  the  hearth, 
went  and  melted.  The  next  moment  they  froze  with 
an  unpleasant  glare  on  Lowood,  seated  with  an  air  of 
intimacy  in  this  house  of  his.  Lowood  knew  him  in 
an  instant  for  the  Duke.  As  has  been  said  he  had  met 
him  one  evening  at  dinner.  He  rose  and  bowed. 

Before  any  greetings  were  made  Alma  appeared  to 
discern  that  an  explanation  was  required. 


The  Duke  of  Saxby  165 

"  This  is  Dr.  Lowood,  Uncle,"  she  said.  "  He  is 
kind  enough  to  be  teaching  me  astronomy.  Dr. 
Lowood,  this  is  the  Duke  of  Saxby." 

The  Duke  flung  an  arrogant  nod  to  him. 

She  crossed  the  room,  and  taking  one  of  his  hands 
kissed  him  with  dutiful  affection  on  a  cheek. 

"  And  how  do  you  do,  Nunc  dear  ?  "  she  questioned 
playfully. 

While  she  kissed  him  he  still  glared  at  Lowood,  now 
as  though  challenging  him,  if  he  dared,  to  have  any 
opinion  upon  the  doings  of  this  house. 

Lowood  saw  that  he  was  a  person  who,  afflicted  by 
the  misfortune  of  never  having  had  restraints  or 
obligations  set  upon  him,  had  all  his  life  eaten  too 
much  and  drunk  too  much,  and  in  all  ways  so  pam- 
pered and  indulged  the  flesh,  that  he  had  become  the 
creature  of  every  hot  current  which  idly  set  and 
swirled  in  his  blood.  A  Duke  he  over  lesser  men,  and 
yet  no  Duke  over  the  lower  man  which  men  lesser 
than  he  held  in  subjection. 

"  Astronomy !  "  he  retorted  upon  Alma.  "  Rub- 
bish ! "  He  pinched  her  delicate  cheek  between  a 
wine-coloured  finger  and  thumb.  "  What  does  a 
minx  like  you  know  of  astronomy?  " 

"  Nothing,"  she  said  quick-wittedly,  "  and  that  is 
why  I  am  learning."  She  tilted  an  offended  chin. 
"  And  women  gave  up  being  minxes  when  they  gave 
up  being  wenches,  Uncle.  Your  vocabulary  requires 
bringing  up  to  date." 

"  And  what,"  Saxby  questioned  her,  with  a  coarse 
but  kindly  irony,  "  do  you  know  about  women?  " 

She  opened  her  large  eyes  upon  him  with  ingenuous 
surprise. 

"  Why,  everything,"  she  said,  "  seeing  that  I  am 
myself  a  woman." 

He  looked  at  her  attentively. 

"  Why,  I  suppose  you  are,"  he  said,  as  though  it  had 
only  now  occurred  to  him.  "  Yet  surely  it  was  only 


166  The  Whips  of  Time 

last  week  that  I  was  buying  a  rocking-horse  for 
you." 

"  Last  week !  "  she  cried.  "  It  was  fifteen  years 
ago.  Old  Rodrick  hasn't  been  ridden  for  ten  whole 
years.  He  is  stabled  in  a  lumber  room." 

The  Duke  continued  to  eye  her.  He  seemed  to  be 
seeing  her  with  some  new  vision.  Then  he  turned  to 
Mrs.  Beaumont,  who  from  her  chair  at  the  fire  had 
sat  smilingly  observing  them,  a  new  light  in  her  beau- 
tiful eyes,  a  new  happiness  in  her  beautiful  face. 
Lowood  he  had  apparently  dismissed  from  his  mind, 
as  he  would  have  dismissed  a  footman  or  some  fresh 
piece  of  furniture  to  which  his  attention  had  been 
called.  He  laid  a  hand  upon  Mrs.  Beaumont's  chair. 
Lowood  caught  his  breath  to  see  the  exquisite  fondness 
in  the  face  she  turned  up  to  him. 

"  Come,  Emmy,"  he  said,  "  I  have  something  for 
you.  I  have  left  it  in  the  boudoir." 

She  rose  smiling.  The  little  silver  tray  of  beads  fell 
unheeded  from  her  knees  to  the  hearth.  They  went 
out  together.  Lowood  saw  that  before  the  door  closed 
the  wine-coloured  hand  of  this  self-indulgent,  arrogant 
man  had  eagerly  found  her  beautiful  one. 

Alma  flew  to  the  fireplace,  and  kneeling  gathered  up 
the  scattered  beads  and  put  them  back  upon  their  silver 
tray.  She  looked  up  and  glanced  at  the  door.  She 
smiled  reflectively. 

"  He  has  always  something  for  her,"  she  said  in 
a  half-wondering  voice,  as  much  to  herself  as  to  Lo- 
wood, "  some  pearls  or  diamonds  or  some  beautiful 
lace.  Auntie  and  I  see  very  few  people,  Dr.  Lowood, 
but  am  I  not  right  in  thinking  that  very  few  husbands 
and  wives  are  so  devoted  to  one  another  after  fifteen 
years  as  are  the  Duke  and  Duchess  ?  " 

She  made  a  little  smiling  gesture  to  the  door  by 
which  they  had  gone  out. 

"  Very  few,  I  believe,"  Lowood  said  gravely. 

"  Do  you  not  think  the  King  is  very  cruel  to  keep 


The  Duke  of  Saxby  167 

them  apart  as  he  does?  Uncle  would  love,  of  course, 
to  have  her  always  with  him." 

"  And  the  King?  "  Lowood  said. 

"  The  King,  you  know,  is  vexed  because  Uncle 
would  not  marry  his  cousin,  the  Princess  Monica  of 
Santanegro.  Uncle  does  not  take  Auntie  to  Court. 
But,  of  course,  everybody  knows.  Don't  they  ?  "  she 
demanded  suddenly. 

"  Oh,  no  doubt,"  Lowood  answered. 

"  We  should  love  to  go  out  more,"  she  went  on, 
for  the  first  time  taking  him  into  personal,  instead  of 
merely  mental,  confidences.  "  It  must  be  delightful 
to  go  to  Court  and  to  meet  all  the  great  people,  and 
the  great  minds  of  the  day.  But  because  the  King 
is  so  vexed  we  are  not  able  to  go  into  the  Duke's  set. 
And  "  (with  that  hauteur  he  had  previously  remarked 
in  her)  "  of  course  we  cannot  go  into  any  other." 

He  reflected  that  the  deception  which  was  being 
practised  upon  her  was  an  unpardonable  piece  of 
cruelty.  Had  she  grown  up  with  the  truth  she  would 
have  learned  to  make  the  best  of  her  unfortunate, 
anomalous  position.  But  with  these  exalted  delusions 
about  her  relation  to  her  neighbours,  a  blow  as  bitter 
as  it  was  unsuspected  was  awaiting  her. 

"  Living  so  much  as  I  do  in  books,"  she  resumed, 
"  I  cannot  help  thinking  that  people's  minds  and 
natures  make  a  real  aristocracy.  I  have  read  some- 
where that  they  do,  not  money  and  rank.  For  instance, 
it  is  absurd  that  Joan  Kesteven  has  to  visit  us  secretly. 
She  is,  of  course,  quite  a  lady,  yet  Auntie  says  the 
Duke  would  not  permit  us  to  know  her.  It  would  be 
quite  a  breach  of  form  for  us  to  visit  out  of  our  set." 

Lowood  was  aghast  at  the  notion  of  her  ingenuous 
sensitiveness  at  the  mercy  of  Miss  Kesteven's  habit  of 
indiscretion.  He  marvelled  that  the  secret  had  not 
long  since  been  blurted  out. 

"  Joan  has  asked  me  not  even  to  nod  or  to  smile 
at  her  when  I  meet  her  in  the  road  with  other  people. 


168  The  Whips  of  Time 

She  says  people  have  such  absurd  notions.  I  could  not 
make  it  out  until  I  came  across  a  passage  in  Thackeray 
in  which  he  says  that  men  in  certain  social  sets  should 
never  confess  to  their  friends  that  they  know  persons 
of  title.  It  creates  such  bitter  jealousy.  The  result  is 
that  I  have  never,  since  I  was  a  child,  known  anyone 
but  Auntie  and  Uncle  Saxby,  and  Uncle  Tony  (the 
Duke's  brother)  and  my  French  governess."  She 
told  off  her  acquaintance  on  the  slender  fingers  of  one 
hand,  and  had  still  a  finger  to  spare. 

"  And  now  you,"  she  added,  smiling.  "  I  have  been 
very  glad  to  know  you.  Auntie  is  sweet  and  beautiful, 
but  she  does  not  care  for  books.  And  Uncle  Saxby 
doesn't  care  for  books  and  only  makes  fun  of  me 
because  I  do.  Uncle  Tony  I  haven't  seen  for  five 
years.  It  was  he  who  taught  me  to  be  fond  of  reading. 
But  he  has  been  governing  an  island  in  the  West 
Indies,  and  has  evidently  forgotten  us.  Because 
although  he  has  been  back  in  England  a  whole  month 
he  has  not  once  come  to  see  us.  So  I  depend  upon 
you  to  feed  my  hungry  mind." 

Looking  at  her  with  professional  insight  he  reflected 
that  it  would  be  better  for  her  body  were  her  mind 
less  fed.  She  was  worn  and  white  and  nervous.  In 
her  eyes  was  a  mental  fever  which  seemed  to  be  con- 
suming her  young  blood  and  health.  She  needed 
association  with  the  youth  of  her  kind,  young  interests 
and  simple  pursuits,  in  the  place  of  this  mental  absorp- 
tion which  was  sapping  her  powers.  While  one  is 
young  one  should  live.  Time  and  to  spare  for 
philosophy  when  youth  and  the  hour  of  roses  have 
gone  by. 

"  Soon,"  he  reflected,  "  she  will  be  compelled  to 
take  to  spectacles  and  will  acquire  a  red  tip  to  her  nose 
and  chronic  indigestion.  Her  brain  needs  the  balance 
of  the  emotions.  It  would  be  an  excellent  thing  for 
her  were  she  to  fall  in  love." 


CHAPTER    XIX 

UNCLE    TONY 

As  things  turned  out  Alma  was  soon  to  receive  that 
impulse  to  the  emotions  which  Lowood  regarded  as 
being  needed  to  balance  her  over-active  brain. 

One  morning  he  found  her  dull  and  inattentive. 
Her  eyes,  usually  two  steadfast  lamps  burning  upon 
shrines  of  knowledge,  now  kept  wandering  from  her 
books  to  stare  abstractedly  out  of  the  windows.  Her 
mind  too  was  obviously  straying.  Sometimes  she  did 
not  answer  when  he  spoke,  sometimes  returned  an- 
swers which  bore  no  relation  to  his  questions. 

Suddenly  her  whole  aspect  changed.  She  trembled 
a  little.  A  strange  look  of  fear  came  into  her  eyes. 
She  threw  out  her  hands. 

"Ah,  no!  Not  that!  Not  that!"  she  cried  in  a 
tragic  whisper.  A  minute  later  she  went  on  with  her 
lesson,  apparently  quite  unconscious  of  her  strange 
seizure. 

Lowood  was  alone  with  her,  Mrs.  Beaumont  having 
left  them.  He  regarded  her  seriously.  This,  which 
appeared  to  him  to  be  some  mental  aberration,  was 
plainly  the  outcome  of  an  overtaxed  brain.  He  deter- 
mined to  choose  an  opportunity  of  again  urging  upon 
her,  more  seriously  than  he  had  already  done,  the 
necessity  of  remitting  her  close  studies,  and  of  leading 
a  more  normal  life.  The  lesson  went  on  as  though 
nothing  had  happened,  till  presently  she  lifted  her 
head  and,  with  a  look  of  rapt  expectancy,  sat  staring 
at  the  door.  A  man  came  in,  a  tall  man,  broad  and 


170  The  Whips  of  Time 

lean,  and  of  a  fine,  distinguished  figure.  His  blue  eyes 
and  his  very  fair  moustache  showed  strangely  in  the 
bronze  which  some  tropical  sun  had  laid  upon  him. 
He  halted  just  within  the  threshold  and  stood  there 
smiling  slightly,  yet  with  a  certain  nervousness  drag- 
ging at  the  corners  of  his  mouth. 

"  Uncle  Tony !  "  she  exclaimed.     Then : 

"  Uncle  Tony !  "  she  repeated  in  a  voice  of  joy. 

She  flew  across  the  room  to  him.  She  caught  both 
of  his  hands  in  hers,  and  with  the  confiding  intimacy 
of  old  acquaintance  lifted  her  face  for  his  kiss. 

"  Dear  Uncle  Tony,"  she  said  between  laughing  and 
crying,  "  I  thought  you  had  forgotten  us." 

Whether  because  of  his  presence  or  from  some  other 
cause  Lowood  could  not  decide,  but  the  man  from  his 
six-feet  height  kept  his  face  out  of  her  reach  and 
disengaged  himself  from  her  by  putting  his  two  hands 
upon  her  shoulders  and  gently  pushing  her  away,  as 
though  to  see  her  face. 

"  I  hadn't  forgotten  you,"  he  said.  "  And  how  has 
the  world  been  treating  you  while  I  have  been  away?  " 

He  slid  down  a  hand  from  her  shoulder,  and  when  it 
found  one  of  hers  gripped  it  cordially.  But  Lowood 
could  see,  by  the  rigidity  of  his  arm,  that  he  was  still 
warding  off  that  embrace  to  which  he  had  no  uncle's 
right.  Her  back  was  to  Lowood,  but  he  divined  that 
there  was  surprise  in  her  face  as  she  realised  that  her 
terms  with  the  newcomer  were  not  to  be  those  upon 
which  they  had  parted.  He  saw  that  the  man,  on  his 
part,  glanced  surprised  at  her,  as  though  wondering 
that  she  should  have  expected  it. 

"  Why,  the  world  has  behaved  very  well,"  she 
answered  playfully.  "  Did  you  think  it  would  have 
devoured  us  ?  " 

"  Sometimes  it  does,"  he  answered,  with  a  certain 
gravity  underlying  his  smile. 

In  age  he  looked  forty.  But  Lowood  judged  him  to 
be  some  years  younger,  the  added  years  of  his  appear- 


Uncle  Tony  171 

ance  being  attributable  to  the  quicker  waste  of  tissue 
which  attends  life  under  tropical  suns.  His  face  was 
lined,  there  was  a  streak  of  grey  in  his  blond  hair, 
and  his  frame  was  spare  with  that  spareness  which 
comes  of  fever.  He  looked,  nevertheless,  in  good 
health,  a  man  who  had  begun  life  with  a  splendid 
constitution,  but  of  a  temperament  strenuous  enough 
to  make  inroads  upon  such  a  constitution.  There  was 
a  faint  resemblance  to  the  Duke  about  him,  but  only 
such  a  family  resemblance  as  is  apparent  when  looked 
for.  This  man  had  full  blue  eyes  and  some  of  the 
strong  heaviness  of  jaw  of  his  brother.  But  this  man 
was  a  sportsman,  and  the  paints  and  clean  austerities 
of  the  outdoor  life  had  put  fibre  and  strength  into 
even  the  defects  of  his  qualities. 

"  Oh,  I  so  missed  you  at  first,"  Alma  told  him. 
"  For  months  I  thought  I  couldn't  bear  it  when 
Sunday  came  and  you  did  not." 

She  put  out  a  hand,  and  with  an  air  of  deep  content- 
ment drew  it  gently  down  the  arm  nearest  to  her. 
He  withdrew  the  arm  abruptly.  He  replied  to  the 
astonishment  in  her  face  by  saying  lightly: 

"  I  had  fever,  you  know.  One's  bones  keep  a  bit 
sore." 

From  the  checked  sound  in  her  voice  when  she  next 
spoke  it  seemed  that  she  had  gleaned  an  inkling  of  the 
truth,  that  they  were  meeting  on  terms  different  from 
those  upon  which  they  had  parted.  A  moment  of 
constraint  followed.  Then  she  turned  and  returned 
up  the  room. 

"  Come  to  the  fire,"  she  said.  "  You  must  feel  it 
cold  after  hot  climates." 

She  introduced  Lowood,  whose  presence  she  had 
forgotten.  The  newcomer,  it  appeared,  was  Lord 
Anthony  Burghwallis. 

"  Dr.  Lowood  is  kind  enough  to  be  reading  astron- 
omy with  me,"  she  explained. 

Burghwallis  shook  hands  with  him. 


172  The  Whips  of  Time 

"  What  in  heaven  for  ?  "  he  asked,  laughing. 

Lowood,  realising  himself  as  superfluous,  shortly 
after  took  his  leave. 

Before  he  left  he  saw  that  Alma's  face  had  under- 
gone one  of  those  transformations  possible  only  to 
highly  organised  natures,  in  which  the  flesh  is  so 
vitalised  that  even  the  physical  conformation  changes 
to  their  mood.  The  mental  exaltation  of  her  eyes  had 
given  place  to  a  soft  glow.  He  saw  for  the  first  time 
a  tinge  of  delicate  rose  in  her  cheeks.  For  the  first 
time  in  his  experience  she  looked  pretty. 

As  he  went  out  he  reflected  that  here  was  a  fine 
complication.  For  i£  was  plain  to  him,  if  not  to 
Burghwallis  himself,  that  this  affection  which  she 
regarded  as  a  dutiful  matter-of-course  was  not  at  all 
of  the  nature  of  a  niece's. 

Mrs.  Beaumont  had  arrived  at  the  door  as  Lowood 
went  out.  She  was  obviously  on  her  way  to  greet  the 
visitor.  Lowood  noted  more  of  tension  —  perhaps 
even  of  anxiety  —  upon  her  accustomed  beautiful 
serenity  than  he  had  previously  seen  there. 

Her  anxiety,  if  such  it  were,  was  insufficient  to 
hasten  her  smooth  pace.  With  her  accustomed  buoy- 
ancy she  floated  up  the  room  to  where  Burghwallis 
and  Alma,  now  seated  one  at  either  end  of  a  velvet- 
cushioned  settle,  were  attentively  observing,  rather 
than  talking  with,  one  another.  Her  beautiful  flesh 
was  its  own  perfect  mistress;  whatsoever  she  may 
have  felt  she  betrayed  no  emotion  in  her  placid  greet- 
ing. 

"  Lord  Anthony,"  she  said,  and  added,  with  that 
conventionality  which  sounds  always  underbred,  "  this 
is  indeed  a  pleasant  surprise." 

He  greeted  her  like  an  old  friend.  His  eyes  dwelt, 
arrested,  on  the  beauty  which  was  so  perfect  as  to  be 
ever  an  astonishment  to  those  who  had  not  looked 
upon  it  for  some  time. 


Uncle  Tony  173 

Years  earlier  he  had  got  into  a  habit  of  passing 
some  idle  Sunday  hours  with  her  and  the  little  girl 
Alma,  to  whom  he  had  taken  a  great  liking.  The 
woman's  sincere  attachment  to  his  brother  and  the 
good  influence  she  had  exercised  over  him  at  a  time 
when  his  tendency  to  drink  and  to  other  evil  ways 
had  threatened  to  make  an  old  aristocratic  name  noto- 
rious, had  inspired  him  with  a  liking  and  sincerte 
respect  for  her.  At  one  crisis  of  the  Duke's  career 
he  had  gone  to  her,  harassed  and  overwhelmed  by  the 
obligation  of  averting  a  public  scandal.  By  her  influ- 
ence and  sound  good  sense  the  crisis  had  been  averted 
and  their  name  saved. 

Profoundly  grateful,  he  had  formed  a  habit  of 
spending  his  Sunday  afternoons  with  her  and  the 
child.  The  Duke  had  at  first  been  hotly  jealous,  but 
had  presently  seen  that  Burghwallis'  attraction  was  to 
the  child  rather  than  to  his  inamorata.  And  the  little 
girl  with  the  big  luminous  eyes  and  sensitive  face, 
who  amused  and  interested  him  by  her  quick  intelli- 
gence and  whimsical  fancies,  had  learned  to  call  him 
uncle. 

"  You  must  be  my  uncle,"  she  had  told  him  gravely, 
"  because  I  read  in  a  book  that  the  husband  of  a  little 
girl's  auntie  was  the  little  girl's  uncle,  and  I  read  in 
another  book  that  the  brother  of  a  little  girl's  uncle 
was  her  uncle  as  well." 

Upon  which  Mrs.  Beaumont  and  he  had  averted 
their  eyes  from  one  another.  And  he  had  ever  after- 
wards passed  for  the  uncle  of  the  lady's  niece.  He 
had  not,  however,  expected,  after  five  years  of  absence, 
to  find  the  girl  still  ignorant  of  the  facts. 

As  he  took  Mrs.  Beaumont's  warm,  soft  hand  in  his 
he  looked  at  her  with  some  dismay,  perhaps  with 
disapproval.  It  was  her  duty  to  have  explained  the 
case  to  Alma.  Only  great  suffering  and  mortification 
could  result  to  her  from  the  deferred  explanation. 

Knowing  something  of  this  beautiful  person's  early 


174  The  Whips  of  Time 

history  it  cannot  be  said  that  he  cherished  illusions 
about  her.  But  he  had  not  realised  the  extent  to 
which  her  soft,  pleasure-loving  temperament  had 
caused  her  all  her  life  to  make  gentle  detours  round 
all  disagreeable  tasks  and  situations,  and  to  leave 
unpleasant  duties  undone.  So  she  had  kept  her  young 
curves  and  dimples,  and  her  undimmed  brilliancy  of 
eye  and  of  skin. 

That  she  had  brought  up  the  girl  as  correctly  and 
as  delicately  as  though  she  had  been  a  young  nun  was 
to  her  credit.  Being  keenly  attached  to  Saxby,  and 
of  an  indolent,  happy  disposition,  she  had  had  little 
or  no  temptation  to  stray  from  the  luxurious  environ- 
ment in  which  he  had  set  her,  a  jewel  in  a  velvet- 
cushioned  coffer.  Before  his  advent  her  career  had 
been  brief  and  very  rapid.  Now  she  was  resting  on 
her  oars  in  a  placid  backwater,  which  was  far  more 
to  her  taste.  And  amid  the  unpleasant  things  she  had 
left  undone  was  the  revelation  to  Alma  of  her  true 
position. 

Perhaps  Burghwallis'  eyes  told  her  that  he  blamed 
her.  Perhaps  her  rudimentary  conscience  pricked  her. 
The  rich  colour  in  her  cheeks  deepened  slightly  as  her 
liquid  voice  informed  him  that  his  presence  was  indeed 
a  pleasant  surprise. 

"  I  have  only  been  home  five  weeks,"  he  said,  "  and 
I've  been  rushed  off  my  feet." 

"You  have  seen  Uncle  George,  of  course?"  Alma 
asked.  "  He  paid  us  a  flying  visit  a  week  ago." 

There  was  a  shade  of  arrogance  in  the  voice  of  the 
Duke's  brother  as  he  replied  that  he  had  seen  the  Duke. 
One  of  the  obligations  of  nobility  is  a  profound  rever- 
ence for  the  members  of  its  order. 

Mrs.  Beaumont  sat  down  like  a  goddess  enthroning 
herself. 

"  I  suppose  it  was  sadly  hot  where  you've  been," 
she  said,  the  gems  on  her  fingers  flashing  in  and  out 
of  her  draperies  as  she  arranged  these. 


Unek  Tony  175 

Burghwallis  laughed. 

"Scorching!"  he  said.  "After  it  last  week's 
snow  was  a  joy.  I  had  much  ado  to  keep  myself 
from  going  out  and  rolling  in  it,  in  the  face  of 
Piccadilly." 

"  Oh,  but  fell  us  about  your  island,"  Alma  begged 
him.  "  Were  there  coral  reefs  and  elephants  and 
cannibals  and  gorillas?  And  were  there  white  people? 
You  never  wrote  a  line." 

"  Why,  I  believe  I  didn't,"  he  answered  disingenu- 
ously. 

The  truth  was  that  having  all  at  once  realised  that 
the  girl  had  become  a  woman  he  had  fled  the  situation. 
Any  day  might  precipitate  one  of  those  scenes  which 
are  so  abhorrent  to  the  masculine  mind.  Accordingly, 
against  his  inclination,  for  he  had  a  strong  affection 
for  the  girl,  he  had  refrained  from  writing,  thinking 
it  best  to  sever  the  acquaintance  altogether,  or  at  all 
events  to  leave  it  in  abeyance  until  the  climax  should 
have  been  safely  tided  over.  And  then  he  had  allowed 
it  to  remain  in  abeyance.  Perhaps  he  would  not  have 
sought  them  out  again  on  his  return  had  not  Saxby 
himself  suggested  it. 

"  You  won't  find  Emmy  changed,"  he  had  said 
boastfully.  "  Not  a  grey  hair  or  a  wrinkle." 

"  She's  wonderful,  I  know,"  Burghwallis  had 
answered. 

And  now  he  had  run  down  to  see  her  and  to  see  his 
old  pet,  Alma. 

Alma  caught  eagerly  at  his  disingenuous  answer. 

"  Or  did  you  write  ?  "  she  asked.  "  And  did  the 
letters  miscarry?  " 

The  wistful  appeal  of  her  eyes  made  him  ashamed 
of  his  disingenuousness. 

"  No,"  he  said  truthfully,  "  I  didn't  write.  You 
have  no  notion  of  the  heaps  I  had  to  do,  being 
governor." 

"  Your  word  was  law,  of  course.    And  did  you  wear 


176  The  Whips  of  Time 

a  crown  and  order  men  to  be  beheaded  if  they  dis- 
obeyed you  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  I  surrounded  my  palace  every 
morning  with  a  dado  of  fresh  human  heads  stuck  on 
a  palisade  of  spears." 

"  How  cruel !  "  Mrs.  Beaumont  commented  tran- 
quilly. "  But  I  suppose  you're  not  really  in  earnest. 
Does  the  British  Government  allow  things  like  that?  " 

Burghwallis  and  Alma  exchanged  laughing  looks. 

"  Allow  it !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  The  Government 
insists  upon  it." 

"  Really?  "  she  said,  "  and  did  you  stick  up  women's 
heads  as  well?  " 

Then  she  protested  to  their  laughter : 

"Of  course  you  are  only  making  fun  of  me,  but 
how  can  one  tell  what  they  do  in  such  places  ?  " 

Her  eyes  stopped  full  on  Alma.  She  regarded  her 
with  attention.  With  that  new  glow  in  her  eyes  and 
a  tinge  of  colour  lending  animation  to  her  shadowy 
face  she  appeared  quite  pretty.  Her  luminous  eyes, 
with  their  long  lashes  and  the  violet  hollows  under 
them,  were  even  beautiful.  From  Alma  her  gaze  went 
to  Burghwallis.  Then  her  lids  fell  demurely. 

"  And  what  do  you  think  of  Alma?  "  she  inquired  of 
him,  carelessly.  "  Do  you  think  she  has  improved  ?  " 

For  some  reason  Burghwallis  seemed  annoyed.  He 
gazed  at  Alma  with  elaborate  attention.  Then : 

"  No,"  he  said  bluntly,  "  she  hasn't  improved  at  all. 
She  looks  thin  and  washed  out.  I  believe  you  starve 
her." 

"  Oh,  what  a  thing  to  say !  "  Mrs.  Beaumont  cried 
warmly.  "  I  can't  force  her  to  eat.  She  simply  won't. 
I've  given  up  trying,  in  despair." 

"  You  should  put  her  in  a  corner  or  take  away  her 
toys,"  Burghwallis  said  ironically.  He  turned  to  Alma 
sharply. 

"  Why  don't  you  eat  your  bread  and  milk  and 
porridge,  you  bad  girl  ?  " 


Uncle  Tony  177 

There  was  manifestly  some  ill-humour  underlying 
his  bantering  tone,  as  though  he  were  annoyed  to  have 
her  forced  upon  him  as  subject  for  thought,  and  as 
though  also  he  were  taking  refuge  behind  the  notion 
of  her  as  a  child.  An  expression  of  delicate  pride 
passed  into  the  girl's  face. 

"  Please  talk  of  something  more  interesting,"  she 
said  sharply. 

Burghwallis  flashed  an  irritable  eye.  Perhaps  he 
resented  sharp  tones  from  Mrs.  Beaumont's  niece. 
Perhaps  he  was  annoyed  that  Mrs.  Beaumont's  niece 
should  possess  delicate  pride  to  be  hurt. 

"  Now,  don't  be  vexed,  Alma,"  Mrs.  Beaumont 
interposed  good-humouredly.  "  I  am  sure  it  is 
very  good  of  Lord  Anthony  to  take  an  interest  in 
you." 

The  delicate  pride  became  pride  in  arms.  Now  she 
swung  round  her  face  and  eyed  him  with  an  arrogance 
which  the  Duke  could  not  have  surpassed. 

"  I  am  grateful  for  Lord  Anthony's  interest,"  she 
retorted  with  a  curling  lip. 

That  ill-humour  still  goading  him  he  replied  to  her 
temper  with  temper. 

"  Good  Lord !  "  he  said  brusquely,  "  it  is  no  affair  of 
mine,  of  course,  what  Miss  Wenlith  or  anybody  but 
myself  eats." 

Her  pride  laid  down  its  arms.  But  before  doing  so 
it  seemed  to  have  wounded  her,  to  judge  by  the  as- 
tonished pain  in  her  eyes.  This  adored  "  Uncle  "  of 
hers,  who  during  his  absence  had  been  exalted  in  her 
mind  to  heroic  heights,  met  her  as  a  mere  acquaintance 
and  called  her  "  Miss  Wenlith !  "  She  regarded  him 
with  mute  and  miserable  reproach. 

Mrs.  Beaumont,  who  knew  a  good  deal  about  men, 
saw  that  she  had  blundered,  and  knowing  a  good  deal 
about  men  she  proffered  balm. 

"  Lord  Anthony,"  she  said  with  liquid  persuasion, 
"  you  will  stop  to  lunch,  of  course.  You  remember  the 


178  The  Whips  of  Time 

flavour  of  our  Moonbank  pheasants.  And  I  have  still 
some  of  that  Chateau  Lafitte  you  always  liked." 

Despite  the  voice  and  the  allurements  proffered,  he 
was  on  the  point  of  declining  when  his  eye  met  Alma's, 
poignant  and  amazed.  Perhaps  he  remembered  with 
justice  that  she  was  as  ignorant  of  all  the  complexities 
which  made  the  situation  so  disturbing  to  him  as  she 
was  innocent  of  them.  He  forced  good-humour. 

"  I  shall  be  delighted,"  he  said. 

Mrs.  Beaumont  rose.  She  had  a  dozen  men-servants 
at  her  command,  and  Burghwallis  would  have  rung  the 
bell  for  her.  But  she  rose  and  quitted  the  room,  mur- 
muring sweetly  that  she  would  tell  somebody  to  do 
something,  which  was  quite  inaudible. 

She  left  these  two  together  with  an  intention  as 
sincere  and  amiable,  although  slightly  different  from 
that  of  the  matchmaking  mother  who  leaves  her 
daughter  to  make  headway  with  an  excellent  pro- 
spective husband. 


CHAPTER    XX 

LORD    ANTHONY 

WHEN  she  had  gone  Alma  met  him  with  a  straight, 
reproachful  look. 

"  Why  have  you  come  back  a  stranger  ?  "  she  asked. 

He  softened. 

"  I  have  not,"  he  said.  "  But  when  people  have 
been  separated  for  five  years  it  takes  a  little  while 
to  break  a  natural  crust  of  time.  I  left  you  a  young 
person,  and  I  find  you  a  young  woman." 

"  But  I  have  not  changed.  And  I  have  remembered 
you  so  well  that  there  is  no  crust  to  be  broken.  It  is  as 
though  you  had  left  us  only  yesterday." 

He  led  her  away  from  this  subject  of  their  personal 
relations.  He  inquired  after  dogs  and  horses  he  had 
known  at  Moonbank.  He  bent  and  took  up  Janita,  who 
was  sitting  on  her  silken  cushion,  gazing  out  her  full, 
pathetic  eyes  into  the  fire,  her  tongue  protruding  like 
the  pink  petal  of  a  flower. 

"  This  is  a  new  pet,"  he  said,  fondling  the  pliant, 
silken  ears. 

"  Yes,  isn't  she  sweet  ?  Uncle  George  brought  her 
down  for  Auntie  two  Christmases  ago." 

He  set  down  the  dog  as  hastily  as  he  had  caught  her 
up.  She  crept  back  to  her  cushion,  every  delicate  limb 
quivering  with  indignation.  She  cast  a  soft,  resentful 
look  at  him  for  the  abruptness  of  his  dealings. 

Again  Alma's  "  Uncle  "  had  jarred  upon  his  pride 
and  upon  his  conscience.  Since  he  had  been  in  the 
cradle,  and  his  brother,  the  Marquis,  had  been  allowed 
to  dominate  the  nursery  and  all  therein  with  will  and 
whip,  he  had  been  taught  to  revere  this  head  of  his 


180  The  Whips  of  Time 

family.  Yet  while  his  pride  resented,  his  conscience 
told  him  that  the  girl  was  innocent  of  the  offence  he 
found  in  her  words.  She  shelved  the  dangerous  topic 
by  taking  him  to  the  stables,  there  to  renew  acquaint- 
ance with  old  dog-and-horse- favourites. 

The  Moonbank  stables  were  fit  to  have  stabled 
princes.  The  furnishings  were  of  satin  wood  embossed 
with  silver.  The  floors  were  of  art  tiles  beautifully 
painted.  Above  his  stall  the  name  of  each  horse  was 
inscribed  upon  a  silver  shield,  and  in  some  were  por- 
traits in  oils  of  the  creature's  sires.  Their  loin-cloths 
were  of  brightly-coloured  silks,  woollen-lined. 

The  grooms  and  stable-helps  wore  picturesque  brown 
velveteens  with  orange  vests  and  facings.  They  ap- 
peared, as  in  "  Gulliver,"  to  be  an  inferior  race,  subject 
to  the  high-born,  beautiful  creatures  they  served. 

The  coming  of  Alma  and  her  companion  was 
greeted  by  joyful  yelps  and  intelligent  whinnyings. 
Soon  they  were  busy  rewarding  the  pampered  creatures 
from  the  little  piles  of  cut  carrots  and  apples  and  bis- 
cuits which  the  grooms  had  set  ready  for  such  visitors 
as  should  desire  to  pay  tribute. 

In  the  genial  natural  atmosphere  which  animals 
engender  the  crust  Burghwallis  had  described  soon 
thawed.  As  he  patted  the  heads  and  fondled  the 
muzzles  of  old  four-legged  acquaintance,  flattered  to 
find  himself  remembered,  strangeness  and  caste  feeling 
passed. 

When  luncheon  was  announced  he  came  out  of  the 
stables  with  Alma,  laughing  and  chatting  upon  the  old 
familiar  footing.  The  girl  had  always  had  a  singular 
charm  for  him.  Her  enthusiasms,  innocent  and  some- 
times absurdly  high-flown,  amused  and  pleased  him. 
She  made  him  feel  always  that  although  he  had  adopted 
the  creeds  and  cynicisms  of  an  effete  age  there  were 
beneath  them  a  man  still  young  and  vigorous,  a  mind 
still  fresh,  and  an  impulsive  heart. 

When  she  had  been  a  child  her  small,  trustful  hand 


Lord  Anthony  181 

in  his  had  filled  him  with  longings  for  children  of  his 
own.  When  he  had  seen  womanhood  gathering  mys- 
terious in  her  eyes  he  had  left  her  with  stirrings  in  his 
heart  for  some  unknown  ideal  woman  who  should  love 
him  and  whom  he  should  love  with  a  purer  and  higher 
passion  than  was  to  be  found  in  the  artificial  "  affairs  " 
which  made  the  pastime  of  his  world. 

Like  other  men  he  played  the  game  of  life  as  he 
found  it  played.  But  like  other  men  he  knew  in  his 
better  moments  that  it  was,  after  all,  but  a  sordid 
burlesque  of  that  best  thing  in  life,  to  love  sincerely 
and  to  be  sincerely  loved. 

Mrs.  Beaumont,  seated  at  the  head  of  her  luxurious 
table  while  the  liveried  footmen  poured  rich  cream  into 
her  Borlasch,  served  quails  with  Muscat  grapes  to  her, 
and  filled  her  glass  with  softly- foaming  opalescent 
wine,  sat  well  content,  leaving  the  conversation  to  these 
two.  Behind  her  beautiful  face  were  a  sensible  mind 
and  a  good  deal  of  shrewd  worldly  wisdom.  And 
Alma's  future  more  than  anything  else  (except  the 
Duke's  unfortunate  love  of  drink)  had  caused  her 
uneasy  hours. 

Burghwallis  was  well  off  and  kind  and  pleasant. 
And  Alma  evidently  liked  him.  Alma  was  handicapped 
for  marriage  by  her  anomalous  circumstances.  More- 
over, placed  as  they  were  by  the  Duke's  imperative 
orders,  with  no  society  of  any  sort,  Alma  did  not 
meet  a  man  from  one  year's  end  to  another. 

Even  had  it  been  otherwise  she  could  not  expect  to 
find  a  husband  of  rank  and  position.  And  Mrs.  Beau- 
mont had  a  great  opinion  of  rank  and  position.  She 
was  quite  sorry,  when  she  thought  about  them,  for  the 
wives  of  business  and  professional  men  who  lived  in 
small  houses  and  were  compelled  to  sew  and  to  mend, 
and  to  walk  on  their  own  tired  feet  instead  of  driving 
behind  a  pair  of  magnificent  horses.  Such  women  in 
all  their  lives  did  not  possess  a  jewel  at  which  Mrs. 
Beaumont  would  not  have  turned  up  her  lovely  nose. 


182  The  Whips  of  Time 

They  wore  serge  and  tweed  gowns  and  ill-fitting  boots. 
They  dressed  their  own  hair,  and  lived  on  legs  of 
mutton  and  rice-puddings.  She  had  a  mild  affection 
for  her  sister's  child  and  did  not  like  to  think  of  such 
a  fate  for  her. 

Therefore,  seeing  Burghwallis  resume  his  old 
friendly  relations  with  the  household,  she  saw  no 
reason  why  Alma  should  not  presently  be  mistress  of 
a  Moonbank  of  her  own. 


CHAPTER    XXI 

CYRIL   HUMMERSTONE 

LOWOOD  had  been  mistaken  in  supposing  that  Joan 
Kesteven  would  break  off  her  engagement  with  Hes- 
troyde.  When  he  met  them  a  week  later  at  a  dinner- 
party at  the  Tempests  they  appeared  to  be  upon 
unusually  loverlike  terms. 

The  fire  was  apparently  forgotten.  If  any  other 
shared  Lowood's  suspicions  that  the  master  of  Mow- 
breck  had  fired  his  own  corn-ricks  in  order  to  obtain 
the  insurance  dues,  he  at  all  events  was  not  sufficiently 
in  the  confidence  of  the  county  to  hear  of  it. 

Joan,  remembering  the  midnight  hospitality  she 
had  claimed  from  Homer  Cottage,  narrowed  her  green 
eyes  upon  her  host  of  that  occasion  with  a  gleam  of 
significance  and  with  that  enjoyment  of  a  secret  under- 
standing which  is  the  very  breath  of  life  to  some  — 
principally  feminine  —  natures. 

He  reflected  cynically  that  in  her  case  "  loved  I  not 
honour  more  "  had  no  place.  The  man's  handsome 
personality  and  physical  spell  were  all  she  asked,  or 
were  at  all  events  sufficiently  powerful  to  stifle  her 
demands  for  higher  qualities.  The  reflection  did  not 
raise  his  opinion  of  her.  He  knew  that  men  reach 
high  levels  mainly  in  proportion  as  women  exact  these 
from  them. 

Legh  was  present.  He,  it  seemed,  had  not  forgotten 
the  fire.  He  showed  still  the  moodiness  and  the  dis- 
quietude Lowood  had  seen  in  him  that  evening. 

When  the  men  quitted  the  dinner-table  Hestroyde 
made  an  impetuous  plunge  into  the  drawing-room 


184  The  Whips  of  Time 

which  sent  him  halfway  up  it  in  search  of  Joan,  before 
he  realised  that  she  had  slipped  into  a  palm-shaded 
recess  beside  the  door.  Lowood,  cooler  and  more 
observant,  availed  himself  of  the  opportunity,  and 
dropped  into  a  seat  beside  her. 

She  made  but  little  disguise  of  the  fact  that  the  seat 
might  have  been  rilled  more  to  her  taste.  But  she 
smiled  pleasantly  enough,  her  eyes  inviting  him  to 
admire  her  in  a  new  dinner-gown  which  her  glass, 
and  no  doubt  Hestroyde's  glances  also,  had  told  her 
was  singularly  becoming.  It  was  green  in  colour,  of 
a  delicate  shade  which  threw  up  her  strong  pinks  and 
whites,  and  her  moon-coloured  hair,  and  repeated  the 
tints  of  her  eyes.  It  was  trimmed  with  moonlight 
sequins  and  with  knots  of  tinsel,  and  flowed  like  light 
and  water  round  the  sinuous  movements  of  her  slender 
shape.  In  her  hair,  knotted  loosely  on  her  white  nape, 
was  a  great  crimson  rose. 

"  Well,  Miss  Kesteven,"  Lowood  said,  "  you  took  no 
harm  the  other  night.  I  expected  to  find  you  laid  up 
with  a  serious  pneumonia." 

She  glanced  quickly  about  her  as  though  to  assure 
herself  of  that  which  Lowood  had  already  assured 
himself,  that  nobody  was  within  hearing. 

"  I  am  never  laid  up,"  she  said.  "  I  am  as  strong  as 
a  horse."  She  added,  "  It  was  shocking  of  me  to  run 
the  risk  of  compromising  you,  I  know.  Do  you  think 
the  Miss  Epithites  or  anybody  suspected  you  of  having 
a  midnight  visitor?  " 

"  I  am  sure  not  or  I  should  have  heard  of  it.  They 
do  not  keep  their  suspicions  to  themselves." 

"  I  am  afraid  you  thought  me  ridiculous.  I  am  not 
given  to  nerves  and  rotten  ways  like  that." 

He  changed  the  subject. 

"  I  heard  a  bird  whispering  about  a  coming  wed- 
ding," he  said.  "  But  sometimes  birds  tell  fibs." 

There  was  just  a  heavy  quiver  of  her  white  lids. 
Then  she  gazed  ingenuously  at  him. 


Cyril  Hummerstone  185 

"  Now,  I  wonder  if  that  absurd  Mark  Hestroyde 
has  been  promising  things  in  my  name,"  she  said.  "  I 
am  far  too  fond  of  my  freedom  to  part  with  it  for 
years  and  years." 

But  there  was  something  in  her  voice  and  in  her 
eyes,  as  they  swept  past  him  down  the  room  and  rested 
with  a  sudden  fixity  upon  some  object  there,  which  told 
him  the  story  was  true.  He  had  heard  that  the  wed- 
ding was  fixed  for  April.  Her  eyes  began  to  alter  their 
focus.  Lowood  had  no  power  of  vision  in  the  back 
of  his  head,  yet  he  knew  as  well  as  though  he  could 
see  him  that  Hestroyde  was  approaching  from  the 
rear. 

He  rose.  , 

"  There  is  something  I  must  say  to  Mrs.  Tempest," 
he  said. 

Hestroyde,  grateful  for  the  empty  chair  he  left, 
shook  hands  with  him  with  an  ardour  of  which 
Lowood  did  not  delude  himself  that  he  was  the  source. 
But  his  face  laid  some  misgivings  the  elder  man  had 
been  harbouring.  After  all,  if  heredity  were  a  strong 
force  was  not  love  even  a  stronger?  Human  nature 
is  not  inert  matter.  It  is  vital  and  quick  with  regen- 
erative potencies.  Passion  awakens  these.  A  man  in 
love  may  rise  Phoenix-like  upon  the  ashes  of  his  hered- 
ity or  of  his  past. 

He  walked  home  through  a  lightly-falling  snow,  his 
feet  gruntling  in  the  crisping  powder  of  a  previous 
shower.  The  cold  was  intense,  a  keen  north-east  wind 
blowing  in  his  teeth.  He  arrived  benumbed  at  Homer 
Cottage.  Outside  the  door  he  shelled  himself  out  of 
his  great  coat,  which  was  thickly  encrusted,  and  shook 
it  free  of  snow.  Then,  with  pleasing  anticipations  of 
his  fire,  his  cosy  chair  and  a  hot  drink,  he  entered  his 
warm,  bright  room. 

He  found  no  bachelor  solitude  there.  In  his  chair, 
drawn  up  to  the  hearth,  his  feet  upon  the  mantelboard, 
between  his  lips  a  cigar  the  aroma  of  which  was 


186  The  Whips  of  Time 

familiar,  at  his  hand  a  steaming  glass  of  which  the 
aroma  was  likewise  familiar,  sat  a  young  man.  On 
seeing  the  master  of  the  house  enter  the  young  man 
reached  down  his  feet  from  the  mantelboard,  removed 
the  cigar  from  his  mouth,  and  rolled  himself  deliber- 
ately to  his  legs. 

"  Hello,  Godpa !  "  he  exclaimed  facetiously,  "  I 
wonder  if  you  remember  me." 

Lowood  looked  him  up  and  down  with  no  very 
friendly  air. 

"  I  can't  say  I  do,"  he  said;  "  but  I  suppose  you  must 
be  Cyril  Hummerstone." 

"  Right  you  are,"  the  newcomer  said;  "go  up  one 
for  not  forgetting  your  dutiful  godson." 

Despite  his  easy  manner  there  was  an  air  of  solicitude 
about  him.  He  was  wasted  and  dissipated-looking. 
His  eyes  were  dull.  His  nose  had  a  congested  tip. 
Added  to  these  displeasing  characteristics  he  was 
shabby  and  threadbare,  and  one  of  his  elbows  had  even 
poked  a  hole  in  his  sleeve,  revealing  a  small  slash  of 
white.  His  collar  was  crumpled,  and  at  one  side  his 
shirt-front,  awry,  showed  a  space  of  dingy  flannel. 
The  hand  he  extended  shook  visibly. 

It  was  impossible  for  him  to  suppose,  from  his  un- 
willing host's  glances,  that  he  was  welcome.  Indeed, 
the  man  who  could  have  welcomed  so  altogether  un- 
prepossessing and  discreditable  a  guest  must  have  been 
a  saint. 

Weak  and  exhausted  as  he  was,  the  underlying 
anxiety  as  to  his  reception  broke  through  his  mask  of 
levity.  He  collapsed  into  his  chair. 

"  For  God's  sake,"  he  appealed  hoarsely,  "  don't 
turn  me  out.  I'm  —  I'm  stony  broke." 

As  has  been  said,  Lowood's  heart  was  kind,  and  he 
was  susceptible  to  the  claims  of  youth.  He  set  a  hand 
upon  the  young  man's  shoulder. 

"  Turn  you  out,"  he  repeated.  "  Rubbish !  I'm 
pleased  to  see  you  again." 


Cyril  Hummerstone  187 

The  young  man,  broken  with  weakness  and  self-pity, 
mutely  held  his  hand  in  two  trembling  ones. 

Then,  "  The  guvnor's  as  hard  as  a  flint,"  he  said. 
"  I've  gone  the  pace  a  bit.  And  he  swears  he'll  do 
nothing  more  for  me." 

Lowood  had  heard  rumours  of  this  "  pace  "  which 
Hummerstone's  only  son  (the  one  person  in  the  world 
who  had  succeeded  in  arousing  some  affection  in  his 
ice-heart)  had  been  making.  He  knew  that  the  father 
had  again  and  again  forgiven  him,  again  and  again 
had  paid  his  debts  and  extricated  him  from  difficulties. 
His  ambition  had  been  that  this,  his  only  son,  should 
continue  his  own  great  lifework  upon  the  Blood- Vessels 
of  the  Tail  of  the  Tadpole.  But  the  boy  showed  no 
interest  in  tadpoles.  Until  he  was  eighteen,  being  of 
a  cold  and  cruel  disposition,  he  had  displayed  a  keen 
liking  for  the  vivisections  of  his  father's  laboratory, 
thereby  deluding  his  father  into  the  belief  that  his  son 
was  a  born  scientist. 

But  a  reaction  had  come. 

Cyril  had  all  at  once  transferred  his  attentions  to  the 
music-hall  stage.  Fired  by  association  with  some  shi- 
ning lights  of  it  he  had  wished  beyond  all  things  to 
adopt  it  for  a  profession.  Possessing  no  talent,  how- 
ever, to  support  his  ambitions,  he  was  forced  to  console 
himself  by  paying  tribute  (out  of  his  father's  purse) 
to  those  of  its  geniuses  whom  he  delighted  to  honour. 

He  had  passed  one  medical  examination  and  had 
been  ploughed  twice  for  the  second.  It  seemed  improb- 
able that  he  would  get  further  in  medical  science  than 
this.  Lowood  had  not  seen  him  for  ten  years,  although 
he  had  fulfilled  his  god-paternal  promises  by  yearly 
sending  him  a  birthday  cheque. 

"  I'm  just  out  of  hospital,"  Hummerstone  explained, 
"  sprained  my  knee  skating  and  got  a  nasty  synovitis. 
Guvnor's  just  mad  because  I'm  not  a  measly  book- 
worm. Old  Johnson  ordered  change  of  air,  but  guv. 
wouldn't  give  me  a  cent.  I  thought  perhaps  you'd  do 


188  The  Whips  of  Time 

« 

the  good  Samaritan  and  take  me  in  until  I'm  on  my 
legs  again." 

"  With  pleasure,  of  course,"  Lowood  told  him, 
making  the  best  of  a  distasteful  obligation.  "  The  air 
here  is  excellent.  It  will  soon  set  you  up." 

"  I  say,"  Hummerstone  submitted,  when  he  had 
presently  regained  his  ease,  "  I  don't  like  to  disgrace 
you."  He  showed  his  threadbare  coat  with  the  hole  in 
an  elbow  of  it.  "  I  suppose  you  haven't  got  an  old 
suit  you  could  rig  me  up  with.  My  rotten  tailor  refuses 
me  any  more  credit.  Like  his  deuced  cheek,  I'm  sure." 

Lowood  possessed  old  suits,  but  as  he  was  sincerely 
attached  to  these  he  presented  his  godson  with  a  new 
one  which  he  could  better  spare.  Hummerstone  was 
normally  a  large  and  flaccid  person  with  grey,  unpleas- 
ant eyes  and  a  pink  and  white  skin  and  immature 
features,  which  had  earned  for  him  in  the  Hospital  the 
nickname  of  "  Rag  Doll."  Just  now,  however,  he  was 
wasted  by  late  hours  and  sickness,  and  Lowood's  long, 
narrow  garments  fitted  him,  albeit  somewhat  tightly. 

He  came  down  next  morning  to  breakfast  in  the  new 
suit.  His  air  of  anxiety  had  given  place  to  one  of  limp 
complacency.  His  pink  and  white  skin  and  immature 
features,  together  with  his  flaxen  hair  and  a  moustache 
which  would  never  get  beyond  the  budding  stage,  lent 
him  a  fictitious  aspect  of  youthful  ingenuousness  which 
his  life  and  experiences  belied.  With  his  restored  con- 
fidence, and  in  his  borrowed  clothes,  he  was  quite 
presentable.  He  did  his  best  to  be  agreeable  with 
sentiments  and  with  a  bland  voice,  which  Lowood 
found  particularly  displeasing. 

"  Look  here,  Godpa  — "  he  began  confidentially, 
when  breakfast,  to  which  he  had  done  an  injustice 
which  further  offended  Lowood's  temperate  tastes,  was 
finished. 

But  Lowood  broke  out  testily : 

"  For  Heaven's  sake,  call  me  by  a  less  offensive 
name !  " 


Cyril  Hummerstone  189 

Hummerstone  glanced  over  at  him  shrewdly  from 
beneath  his  waxy  lids ;  he  probably  gathered  that  this 
usually  tolerant  man  could  be  savagely  intolerant  upon 
occasions. 

"  Sorry,"  he  apologised  meekly.  "  Of  course  it  was 
only  a  joke.  And  I  was  going  to  make  you  my  father- 
confessor —  " 

.  "  For  goodness  sake,  don't  do  that  either!  Confes- 
sion —  from  one  man  to  another  —  is  bad  for  the  soul. 
Women  are  the  only  persons  who  are  good  enough  for 
men  to  confess  their  sins  to." 

Hummerstone  laughed  coarsely. 

"You  mean  because  they're  so  often  partakers?" 

Lowood,  every  sensitive  nerve  in  him  on  edge  with 
that  which  he  could  not  help  realising  as  inhospitable 
irritation,  retorted  sharply : 

"  I  meant  nothing  of  the  sort." 

Hummerstone  looked  puzzled.  He  could  not  have 
been  called  a  clever  person,  although  he  knew  enough, 
as  he  would  have  styled  it,  "  to  come  in  when  it  rained." 
He  reverted  to  his  purpose. 

"  I'm  not  going  to  snivel  and  snuffle,"  he  said.  "  I've 
had  a  good  time,  and  don't  regret  it.  But  I  am  going 
to  turn  over  a  new  leaf.  A  man  must  settle.  It's 
deuced  uncomfortable  at  home.  Living  with  the  guv. 
is  like  living  with  a  brick  wall.  It's  time  I  looked  out 
for  a  home  of  my  own.  As  far  as  I'm  concerned  this 
medicine  business  is  sheer  rot ;  I  have  no  taste  for  look- 
ing at  people's  tongues  or  feeling  pulses.  And  the 
physiology  business  is  worse.  Too  much  head  work 
and  too  little  pay  for  my  way  of  thinking.  So  I'm 
thinking  of  chucking  the  wild-oat  game  and  marrying." 

"  Well,"  Lowood  said,  "  it's  an  excellent  resolution 
on  your  part,  but  it's  a  resolution  that  costs  money. 
How  are  you  going  to  get  over  the  ways  and  means 
difficulty?" 

"  It  solves  the  ways  and  means  difficulty,"  Hummer- 
stone  said,  "  I  mean,  of  course,  to  marry  money  —  and 


190  The  Whips  of  Time 

a  nice  girl  too,"  he  added,  with  a  show  of  what  he 
plainly  regarded  as  virtuous  feeling.  "  I'm  not  going 
to  sell  myself  to  any  old  hideous  hag.  The  woman  I 
marry  must  be  nice  and  nice-looking  and  all  that. 
Hang  it !  I'm  not  altogether  a  mercenary  hog." 

"  Well,"  Lowood  said,  wondering  how  long  his  sense 
of  the  duties  of  a  host  would  keep  him  from  cuffing 
his  godson's  ears,  "  I  see  no  objection  to  your  plan, 
provided  you  are  really  determined  to  turn  over  a  new 
leaf.  At  the  same  time  I  must  tell  you  it  would  be 
more  to  your  credit  if  you  would  first  sit  down  to  the 
grind  of  passing  your  exam,  as  a  proof  of  good  faith." 

"  No,  I'll  be  hanged  if  I'll  do  that,"  Hummerstone 
blurted.  "  I  tell  you  I've  no  taste  for  examining 
tongues,  so  why  waste  time  grinding  at  what  will  never 
bring  me  in  a  red  cent  ?  " 

Lowood  set  a  curb  upon  his  tongue  before  he  spoke. 
Then  he  said  evenly : 

"  You  must  do  as  you  think  best,  of  course.  The 
change  here  will  set  you  up  to  begin  your  heiress-hunt 
when  you  return." 

"  That  was  what  I  was  going  to  talk  about.  I'm 
going  to  begin  at  once.  My  heiress  is  on  the  spot  and 
is  a  friend  of  yours.  Vox  has  been  telling  me  the 
county  history.  Lively  chap,  Vox !  " 

Lowood  had  never  regarded  in  this  light  the  meek 
and  sober  person  who  seemed  to  him  so  precise  as  to 
be  almost  old-maidish  in  his  ways.  He  reflected  that 
if  no  man  is  a  hero  to  his  valet,  perhaps  also  no  valet 
is  a  man  to  his  master. 

;<  Yes,"  Hummerstone  continued,  caressing  his  large 
knees,  "  from  Vox's  description  I  find  Miss  Kesteven 
just  to  my  taste." 

"  No  doubt,"  his  elder  retorted  ironically,  "  but  you 
are  some  weeks  too  late.  Another  man  has  also  found 
her  to  his  taste.  She  is  engaged  to  be  married." 

The  information  did  not  supply  that  check  he  had 
expected. 


Cyril  Hummerstone  191 

"So  Vox  said,"  Hummerstone  assented  blandly; 
"  but  I  mean  to  have  a  try  at  cutting  out  this  country 
bumpkin.  Heiresses  in  their  own  right,  unencumbered 
by  parents  of  remarkable  longevity,  are  scarce.  Vox 
says  Miss  Kesteven  has  nearly  a  quarter  of  a  million. 
And  I  don't  mind  telling  you  I  have  a  way  with 
women." 


CHAPTER    XXII 

PLOTS 

SUDDENLY  all  of  Lowood's  exasperation  subsided.  At 
the  moment  when  it  was  reaching  saturation  point  his 
sense  of  humour  bubbled  up.  The  young  man's  conceit 
of  himself,  his  frank  avowal  of  his  odious  sentiments, 
his  impudent  faith  in  his  own  powers  of  success,  made 
so  extravagant  a  medley  that  he  laughed  outright. 

He  remembered  Joan's  eyes  as  they  had  melted  at 
Hestroyde's  approach  —  symptom  significant  indeed, 
in  one  so  strong-willed  and  capricious.  He  remem- 
bered that  Hestroyde's  own  criminal  act  had  not 
apparently  injured  him  in  her  affections.  He  compared 
the  lover's  dark  beauty,  his  culture  and  grace,  with  this 
pink-and-white  flaccid  and,  it  seemed  to  him,  wholly 
unattractive  person.  And  he  laughed,  a  little  cruelly 
perhaps,  at  the  inflated  pretensions  of  his  godson. 

A  dull  red  crept  slowly  to  the  young  man's  brows, 
slowly  as  though,  although  some  sense  of  modesty 
still  dwelt  in  him,  it  was  but  languid  and  remote. 

"Of  course  there's  a  chance  of  failure  in  every- 
thing," he  admitted.  "  Nothing  is  certain.  A  man  can 
only  try.  I  tell  you  I  know  a  good  bit  about  women 
and  I  have  a  way  with  them.  At  all  events  you'll 
introduce  me." 

Lowood  refused  point-blank. 

"  I  can  be  no  party  to  such  a  plot,  and  I  may  as  well 
tell  you  that  it  would  fail  utterly.  The  girl  is  devoted 
to  Hestroyde." 

For  a  minute  the  young  man  was  taken  aback. 
Then  he  submitted  blandly: 


Plots  193 

"  But  if  I  shall  fail,  where  would  be  the  harm  of 
introducing  me?  " 

"  Miss  Kesteven  is  a  flirt,  and  Hestroyde's  a  difficult 
chap.  It  would  be  easy  enough  to  make  trouble  between 
them." 

All  at  once  he  found  himself  astonished  at  his  own 
irrationality.  Less  than  twenty-four  hours  earlier  he 
had  deplored  the  fact  that  Joan  Kesteven,  the  county 
heiress,  was  to  be  sacrificed  to  the  son  of  the  murderess. 
And  now  he  was  doing  his  best  to  prevent  disunion 
between  them.  Hummerstone's  bland  grey  eyes  glinted 
at  his  admissions.  He  seemed,  however,  to  accept  the 
inevitable. 

"  You  are  hard  on  a  chap  down  on  his  luck,  putting 
a  spoke  like  this  in  his  wheel,"  he  grumbled  lightly, 
and  said  no  more. 

Lowood,  seeing  no  drop  in  his  spirits,  but  that  on 
the  contrary  these  rose  visibly  as  the  day  wore  on, 
decided  that  the  young  man  had  been  merely  ragging 
him,  and  that  he  had  not  thought  seriously  of  setting 
up  as  Hestroyde's  rival.  He  was  vexed  at  having 
allowed  himself  to  be  duped. 

After  lunch  Hummerstone  selected  from  the  flower- 
bowls  on  the  table  a  bunch  of  pink  carnations  and  a 
spray  of  fern.  These  he  made  up,  with  deft  fleshy 
fingers,  into  an  artistic  buttonhole.  Going  to  the  glass 
he  adjusted  it  carefully  in  his  coat,  having  first,  with 
a  wink  and  a  smirk  at  Lydia,  borrowed  a  pin  from  that 
austere  person. 

Polly,  who  from  the  moment  of  his  arrival  had 
watched  his  movements  with  unwinking  curiosity, 
forgetting  food  and  drink  in  her  consuming  eagerness, 
now  sidled  after  him  to  the  corner  of  her  cage  and 
eyed  the  pinning  of  the  buttonhole  with  burning 
interest. 

Suddenly  she  broke  out  in  a  wheedling,  squaw-like 
voice : 

"  My  name's  Polly.    What's  your  name?  " 


194  The  Whips  of  Time 

"  My  name's  Hummerstone,"  he  answered,  for  the 
first  time  noticing  her.  "  What's  your  name?  " 

"  My  name's  Polly,"  she  repeated,  hugely  pleased. 
"  What's  your  name  ?  " 

Then  she  was  seized  with  a  paroxysm  of  vanity  to 
show  her  tricks  to  him.  She  climbed  her  cage,  she 
rocked  her  body,  danced,  sang,  shrilled,  whistled.  She 
appeared  to  have  lost  her  silly  head  completely,  in  a 
fever  to  attract  the  notice  of  this  large  pink 
person. 

"  Take  care,"  Lowood  said,  uncertain  of  her  in  her 
new  excitement,  as  Hummerstone  passed  a  careless 
finger  over  the  grey  head  stooped  invitingly  for  his 
caress.  But  he  need  not  have  feared.  Polly  found 
the  newcomer  vastly  to  her  flamboyant  taste.  Lowood 
was  quite  disgusted  by  her  squaw-like  adulation. 

"  Oh,  I  have  a  way  with  'em,"  Hummerstone  re- 
peated complacently. 

Then  he  deserted  her. 

"  By  the  bye,"  he  said,  "  I  think  of  going  for  a 
tramp.  My  knee  gets  stiff.  A  walk  will  do  it 
good." 

He  returned  minus  his  buttonhole  and  with  a  self- 
satisfied  smile  upon  his  large  face.  He  seemed  vague 
as  to  where  he  had  been. 

"  Oh,  just  rambling,"  he  answered.  "  All  country 
roads  are  much  like  others  —  hills  and  hedges  and 
things.  There  seemed  to  be  the  usual  number  of  hills 
and  hedges  the  way  I  went." 

Lowood  derived  an  impression  that  he  was  conceal- 
ing something.  It  did  not  trouble  him,  however.  He 
did  not  suppose  that  any  profit  was  to  be  gained  by 
probing  his  guest's  vulgar  mind. 

Before  the  evening  post  his  unwelcome  guest  had 
borrowed  a  ten-pound  note  from  him. 

"  I  can't  disgrace  you  here,"  he  said  again,  with  a 
show  of  considerate  compunction,  "  I'll  just  send  for 
a  dress-suit  and  some  shirts  and  things.  To  tell  the 


Plots  195 

truth,  I  had  to  pawn  things  to  pay  my  debts.  Hang 
it  all,  a  man  must  pay  his  debts!  " 

"  Don't  trouble  about  the  dress-suit,"  Lowood  told 
him.  "  I  will  excuse  your  tweeds." 

"  Thanks  awfully,"  Hummerstone  said.  "  But 
supposing  —  " 

He  did  not  complete  his  sentence.  But  before  bed- 
time he  had  proved  his  discretion  in  sending  for  his 
dress-suit.  For  Legh  dropped  in,  and  before  he  left 
he  reminded  Lowood  that  he  was  engaged  to  dine 
with  him  on  New  Year's  Eve. 

"  And  bring  your  friend,  of  course,"  he  added. 

Before  Lowood  could  answer,  although  he  could 
only  have  answered  in  the  affirmative,  Hummerstone 
had  interposed  with  his  everlasting: 

"  Thanks  awfully." 

And  the  thing  was  done. 

"  Hestroyde  and  Joan  are  coming,"  Legh  told  Lo- 
wood. Hummerstone's  eyes  again  glinted  unpleas- 
antly. While  Legh  had  been  there  he  had  said  little, 
but  had  sat  smoking  quietly,  his  long  legs  outstretched 
before  the  fire,  at  intervals  lifting  his  pink  lids  upon 
the  visitor. 

When  Legh  had  gone  he  said  rather  offensively : 

"  So  you  see,  my  dear  god-parent,  in  spite  of  your 
objections  I  am  to  meet  the  heiress  and  her  country 
bumpkin  after  all." 

Whereat  Lowood  had  much  ado  to  refrain  from 
bundling  six  feet  of  flaccid  flesh  and  odious  manners 
out  into  the  night.  Later,  he  regretted  bitterly  that 
any  consideration  whatsoever  of  his  duties  as  host  had 
prevented  him  from  carrying  this  laudable  impulse  of 
his  into  effect. 

Hummerstone  seemed  all  at  once  to  realise  that  he 
was  not  commending  himself  to  his  godfather.  As  it 
was  part  of  his  plan  to  extend  his  visit  as  long  as 
possible  he  turned  over  a  new  page  of  manners.  He 
said  less  and  said  it  less  offensively,  made  efforts 


196  The  Whips  of  Time 

(which  did  not  come  easily)  to  efface  himself  and  to 
keep  out  of  his  host's  way.  So  Lowood  came  to  suffer 
him. 

Another  afternoon  he  chose  a  buttonhole  and  went 
out  strolling.  Again  he  returned  without  his  button- 
hole and  wearing  a  complacent  smile. 

Lowood  was  mystified  when,  upon  taking  him  on 
New  Year's  Eve  to  dine  at  Hooton  Hoo  (his  dress- 
suit  having  arrived  just  in  time),  Hummerstone 
greeted  Joan  with  the  air  of  an  old  acquaintance. 
She  bridled  and  smiled  at  him  with  a  gleam  of  under- 
standing. 

Lowood  saw  Hestroyde  look  the  stranger  up  and 
down  with  overbearing  insolence,  as  though  question- 
ing what  deuced  right  this  fellow  had  to  have  known 
Joan  without  his  sanction. 

"  Miss  Kesteven  and  I  are  old  chums,"  Hummer- 
stone  said,  with  that  cool  audacity  which,  even  when 
unsupported  by  another  quality,  is  an  effective  weapon 
with  some  women.  They  mistake  it  for  the  boldness 
which  in  the  simpler  days  of  marriage  by  capture 
inflamed  the  suitor  to  dash  into  the  cave  or  wigwam 
and  catch  up  his  bride  and  make  off  with  her.  In 
point  of  fact  the  underbred  assurance  of  such  men 
as  Hummerstone  has  nothing  in  common  with 
courage. 

"  Hummerstone  did  not  tell  me  he  knew  you," 
Lowood  told  her,  surprised. 

She  did  not  answer,  but  regarded  him  with  a  piquing, 
baffling  smile,  keeping  watch  out  of  the  corner  of  an 
eye  for  its  effect  on  Hestroyde. 

But  Hestroyde,  after  his  one  overbearing  glance, 
thought  better  of  his  temper  and  greeted  Lowood's 
guest  with  civil  friendliness.  There  was  a  new  air  of 
proud  proprietorship  and  responsibility  about  him  since 
Joan  had  fixed  the  date  of  their  wedding.  His  reserve, 
too,  had  thawed,  and  he  was  more  genial,  and  betrayed 
a  sort  of  exalted  joy,  joy  at  high  tension. 


Plots  197 

Legh  was  a  good  host  and  he  did  well  the  honours 
of  his  handsome  house. 

Beside  these  two,  in  whom  the  clean  and  wholesome 
outdoor  life  had  given  a  higher  quality  to  the  very 
flesh  of  their  bodies,  Lowood  was  ashamed  of  his 
charge,  whose  lax  condition  and  dissolute  look  showed 
cheap  and  underbred.  But  there  are  women  for  whom 
a  dissolute  air  has  strong  attraction.  The  attraction 
has  its  source  in  vanity.  Here  now,  they  think,  is 
a  man  appreciative  of  feminine  charm!  Here  now  is 
subject  for  subjugation. 

Joan  Kesteven  was  one  of  these.  To  Lowood,  who 
had  seen  her  a  week  earlier  beneath  the  spell  of  Hes- 
troyde's  higher  manliness,  the  outrageous  flirtation 
she  now  proceeded  to  indulge  with  Hummerstone  was 
an  amazement.  He  found  it  especially  annoying 
because  it  justified  that  assurance  of  Hummerstone's 
at  which  he  had  openly  laughed.  He  felt  that  he  would 
have  liked  to  inflict  a  good  wholesome  shaking  on  her. 

Hestroyde  looked  several  times  annoyed,  but  he  bore 
it  on  the  whole  with  becoming  equanimity.  Lowood 
reflected  that  perhaps  he  was  beginning  to  realise  what 
manner  of  woman  she  was,  and  that  he  might  as  well 
attempt  to  control  her  flirtations  as  try  to  keep  ai 
butterfly  from  fluttering. 

There  was  a  large  party  at  Hooton  Hoo.  People 
had  driven  in  from  long  distances.  After  dinner  there 
was  a  ball,  with  a  special  cotillion  arranged  by  Joan 
and  the  Tempest  girls.  A  few  minutes  before  twelve 
all  the  guests  repaired,  laughing  and  excited,  to  the 
hall.  Servants  had  passed  glasses  of  champagne,  and 
as  the  clock  struck  twelve  the  great  oak  doors  were 
flung  widely  open,  showing  the  fine  old  gardens, 
thickly  sown  with  snow  and  illumined  by  moonlight. 
Then,  as  the  cold  blast  which  had  swept  in  was  again 
shut  out,  all  the  guests  raised  and  clinked  glasses,  and 
drank  to  the  health  and  good  luck  of  the  newly-entered 
year. 


198  The  Whips  of  Time 

Joan,  excited  and  audacious,  wantonly  turned  from 
the  glass  which  Hestroyde,  beside  her,  held  towards 
her  own,  and  clinked  glasses  with  Hummerstone,  who 
had  taken  his  stand  upon  her  other  side.  In  her  excite- 
ment and  wil fulness  she  struck  the  thin  brim  so 
sharply  against  the  other  glass  that  her  glass  cracked 
and  fell  in  three  pieces  at  her  feet.  And  the  wine  was 
spilled. 

In  a  moment  her  lover,  seeing  the  dismayed  sobering 
of  her  face,  and  knowing  her  to  be  superstitious,  had 
forgiven  her  rebuff  and  gave  his  full  untasted  glass  to 
her.  She  took  it  and  drank  it  nervously.  Then  she 
returned  it  to  him. 

"  Oh,  Mark!  "  she  exclaimed,  with  a  little  shiver,  "  I 
have  drunk  your  luck.  You  have  given  me  your  luck." 

"  Never  mind,  darling,"  he  whispered,  "  it's  all  the 
same.  And  there  is  some  left." 

Smiling,  he  emptied  the  glass.  But  her  light- 
heartedness  was  gone  for  the  evening.  When  they 
returned  to  the  drawing-room  for  games  she  kept 
dutifully  close  to  Hestroyde  and  gave  scarcely  another 
glance  at  Hummerstone. 

"  Where  had  you  met  Miss  Kesteven  ?  "  Lowood 
asked  him  when  they  were  driving  home. 

Hummerstone  laughed,  a  species  of  bland  internal 
laugh  which  Lowood  abominated. 

"  I'll  own  up,"  he  said.  "  That  afternoon  I  went  out 
I  went  and  called  on  her.  I  wrote  your  name  on  my 
card  and  explained  that  I  was  your  dutiful  godson. 
She  didn't  ask  any  questions.  She  likes  men  and  she 
was  glad  to  have  somebody  to  brighten  a  dull  after- 
noon. Beastly  dull  place  the  country,  when  all  is  said 
and  done !  Though,  thanks  to  you,  sir,"  he  interposed 
with  forced  deference,  "  I'm  putting  in  a  jolly  good 
time  and  making  flesh  like  winking." 

Lowood  said  nothing.  He  could  not  have  said  any- 
thing without  saying  more  than  he  wished  to  say. 
After  all,  the  man  was  a  bounder.  Why  expect  from 


HER   GLASS    CRACKED   AND   FELL    IN   THREE    PIECES   AT   HER    FEET. 

[Pag-e  198 


Plots  199 

him  standards  of  which  he  was  incapable?  In  his 
exasperated  aversion  to  his  godson  he  forgot  his 
antagonism  against  Hestroyde.  Munnings  or  not,  he 
was  infinitely  to  be  preferred  to  this  man. 

Next  morning  Hummerstone  came  in  from  a  stroll 
in  a  state  of  suppressed  excitement. 

"  I'll  depart  from  my  bad  ways,"  he  told  Lowood 
in  a  bantering  tone.  "  Black-looks  shall  keep  his 
heiress.  I've  been  and  gone  and  seen  another  who 
knocks  her  into  fits.  Talk  about  love  at  first  sight ! 
I  fell  plumb  in.  Fairly  took  away  my  breath.  By 
Jove,  who's  your  stunner  who  lives  in  a  marble  house 
about  two  miles  down  the  road  and  drives  behind  a 
pair  of  spanking  bays,  coachman  and  footman  in  red 
and  brown  livery?" 

Lowood  knew  well  enough  who  was  his  "  stunner." 
A  swirl  of  hottest  anger  seized  him.  Was  not  Aphro- 
dite herself  sacred  to  this  hooligan  ?  Had  he  seen  her 
in  her  chariot  drawn  by  doves,  the  Goth  would  have 
stoned  the  white,  beautiful  creatures.  He  controlled 
his  rage.  His  exotic  sentiment  was  a  thing  too  delicate 
and  shy  to  be  betrayed,  by  even  so  much  as  a  glimpse, 
to  Hummerstone's  coarse  eyes. 

"  I  imagine  you  mean  Mrs.  Beaumont  of  Moon- 
bank,"  he  said  indifferently.  "  She  is  regarded  as  the 
local  beauty." 

"  A  widow  ?  A  rich  widow  ?  "  was  the  eager  ques- 
tion. 

Lowood  explained. 

The  explanation,  dry  and  ungarnished  as  it  was, 
appeared  to  stir  that  sense  which  was  the  young  man's 
sole  approach  to  humour.  He  chuckled.  He  giggled. 
He  laughed  outright. 

"  I  say,  how  naughty !  Who'd  have  thought  this 
most  old-maidish  little  hole  had  such  an  impropriety 
stuffed  away  in  it.  Look  here  though,  you  must  intro- 
duce me  to  the  Beaumont.  You  can't  have  any  finicky 
scruples  that  I'm  not  good  enough  for  that  quarter. 


200  The  Whips  of  Time 

She  and  I  would  get  on  like  a  house  on  fire.  I  felt 
it  in  the  air."  His  face  sobered.  "  But  what  a  beastly 
complication !  Puts  marrying  her  out  of  the  question. 
A  man  owes  something  to  himself." 

"  Rather  late  in  the  day  for  you  to  discover  that," 
his  mentor  broke  out  savagely. 

Hummerstone  was  slow  to  take  offence. 

"  Hang  it  all,"  he  said,  "  men  and  women  are  tarred 
with  different  brushes.  A  man's  wife  has  got  to  be  as 
straight  as  a  die." 

"  Indeed." 

"  Well,  that's  my  feeling  about  it,"  he  insisted 
virtuously.  "  All  chaps  are  not  so  particular,  I  know. 
I  don't  pretend  to  be  a  saint  myself,  but  I  draw  the  line 
somewhere.  And  I  should  expect  my  wife  to  be  above 
suspicion,  as  Alexander  said." 

"Was  it  not  Caesar?" 

"  It  may  have  been.  It  was  one  of  those  chaps  at  all 
events.  And  very  creditable  of  him  too.  Society 
would  go  to  pieces  if  we  didn't  keep  a  bit  up  to  the 
mark." 

"  Keep  other  persons  up  to  the  mark,  you  mean." 

"  Yes.    Wives  especially." 

"  And  so,  in  spite  of  temptation,  you  renounce  your 
intention  of  marrying  Mrs.  Beaumont?  "  Lowood  said. 
"  Really,  I  scarcely  know  which  to  admire  most,  your 
high  principles  or  your  conceit." 

Hummerstone  winced  slightly. 

"  Now,  you're  ragging,"  he  said.  "  Of  course  I 
don't  say  for  certain  she'd  have  me.  Any  man  may 
come  a  cropper,  I  admit.  Although,  as  I've  told  you, 
I  have  a  way  with  women.  And  you've  seen  how  Joan 
Kesteven  took  to  me.  Still,  I'd  like  to  know  the 
Beaumont.  So  if  you  know  her  —  " 

"  I  don't  know  her  sufficiently  well  to  introduce  you 
to  her." 

There  was  a  pause.  Out  of  his  small  grey  eyes 
Hummerstone  glanced  at  his  host.  He  was  not  quite 


Plots  201 

sure  of  the  significance  of  his  words.  If  he  had  laid 
a  stress  on  "  you,"  he  would  have  known  what  to 
think.  He  was  quite  shrewd  enough  to  have  long 
since  detected  that  he  was  not  persona  grata  with  his 
godfather.  But  the  voice  had  been  level  in  tone,  and 
the  words  might  have  meant  that  his  acquaintance  with 
Mrs.  Beaumont  was  insufficient  to  warrant  introducing 
to  her  any  man  of  his  acquaintance. 

Hummerstone  was  smart  where  his  own  interests 
were  concerned.  And  his  interests  were  strongly  con- 
cerned to  continue  to  enjoy  the  hospitality  of  Homer 
Cottage.  Therefore,  suspecting  that  for  some  reason 
he  was  not  ingratiating  himself,  he  affected  a  contrite 
humility. 

"  I  say,"  he  submitted,  "  you're  a  little  hard  on  me, 
aren't  you,  sir?  I  don't  say  I  haven't  made  rather  a 
mess  of  my  life,  but  I'm  not  a  hardened  ruffian.  And 
I  don't  mean  any  harm." 

Lowood,  always  kind-hearted,  was  mollified.  He 
reflected  again,  as  he  had  already  reflected,  that  it  was 
really  the  young  man's  misfortune  rather  than  his 
fault  that  he  was  what  he  was. 

"  Why,"  he  said,  "  I  have  not  supposed  you  to  be 
a  hardened  ruffian.  I  merely  told  you  I  do  not  know 
Mrs.  Beaumont  sufficiently  well  to  make  introductions 
to  her.  Of  course  she  isn't  in  the  set  down  here." 

"  I  suppose  not,  sir,"  Hummerstone  answered  duti- 
fully. Then,  as  though  he  had  ceased  to  be  interested, 
he  rose  and  stretched  his  large  limbs. 

"  I  think  I'll  go  out  for  a  stroll.  Can  I  do  anything 
for  you  in  the  village  —  buy  stamps,  or  sugar,  or 
cheese  or  anything?" 

Lowood,  softening  to  him,  stiffened  again  into  exas- 
peration. Facetiousness  was  a  vice  for  which  he  found 
no  excuse.  The  least  a  young  man  could  do  for  his 
elders  was  to  take  them  seriously.  He  controlled  him- 
self sufficiently  to  say  "  No,  thanks,"  instead  of  cross- 
ing the  room  and  cuffing  his  godson's  large  pink  ears 


202  The  Whips  of  Time 

as  he  had  once  done  when  the  latter  had  been  a 
schoolboy. 

He  watched  him  lounging  down  the  garden  path 
between  the  peacocks.  He  was  pleased  to  note  the 
sour  disdain  of  these  yew  creatures,  to  read  in  their 
ruffled  plumage  a  fuller  and  more  contemptuous  degree 
of  aversion  than  they  showed  toward  himself. 

"  Young  man !  "  he  apostrophised  the  large  tweed 
form  which  had  put  on  so  much  flabby  flesh  that  the 
tweeds,  which  had  been  his  own,  began  to  be  absurdly 
tight  for  it,  "  young  man,  some  day  you  will  get  well 
kicked,  and  may  I  be  there  to  see." 

He  shook  a  futile  fist  after  him.  For  he  knew  it 
was  more  than  probable  that  he  was  even  now  on  his 
way  to  repeat  the  sly  manoeuvre  by  which  he  had  forced 
Miss  Kesteven's  acquaintance,  and  that  by  making  a 
similar  unwarranted  use  of  his  host's  name  he  might 
also  force  himself  upon  Moonbank. 

"  Heaven  send  that  Saxby  will  be  waiting  for  him 
with  a  horsewhip!  "  he  chuckled  with  devout  sincerity. 


CHAPTER    XXIII 

A    KISS 

HUMMERSTONE,  in  point  of  fact,  made  straight  for 
Moonbank.  But  his  plans  were  still  in  embryo.  Even 
as  he  went  he  was  turning  them  over  in  his  mind,  and 
was  at  the  same  time  exasperated  with  himself  for 
wasting  thought  upon  the  Beaumont  instead  of  devo- 
ting all  his  energies  to  Joan.  The  one  was  play,  the 
other  business.  And  for  the  moment  ways  and  means 
were  a  very  pressing  business,  seeing  that  his  father 
obdurately  refused  to  supply  him  with  funds  unless  he 
would  return  to  his  home  and  to  the  grind  of  study. 
He  could  not  indefinitely  prolong  his  visit  to  Lowood. 
And  when  the  door  of  Homer  Cottage  should  be  closed 
upon  him  the  only  other  available  doors  of  refuge 
were  those  of  the  paternal  home  and  of  the  workhouse 
which  a  thoughtful  State  provided  for  him.  He  was 
hard  pressed  indeed,  and  yet,  having  all  his  life  indulged 
his  fancy,  his  fancy  now  drew  him  to  Moonbank. 

He  had  not  the  hardihood  to  intend,  as  Lowood 
suspected,  a  repetition  of  his  ruse  with  Joan.  The 
cases  were  different.  Mrs.  Beaumont  was  probably 
a  woman  of  the  world,  and  would  doubtless,  because 
of  her  ducal  associations,  have  pretentious  notions  of 
her  importance.  The  thing  needed  thinking  over.  He 
would  stroll  up  and  have  a  look  at  the  house.  Some- 
thing might  happen  to  further  an  introduction.  At  all 
events  he  might  catch  a  glimpse  of  a  ravishing  face 
and  of  the  charmer's  amber  wig.  For  he  had  decided 
that  it  was  a  wig. 


204  The  Whips  of  Time 

Men  of  his  stamp  pride  themselves  upon  what  they 
regard  as  a  knowledge  of  the  world,  which  with  them 
means  that  they  take  nothing  for  what  it  seems.  In 
point  of  fact  it  is  even  more  deceptive  to  belittle  all 
things,  great  and  small,  than  it  is  to  mistake  occasion- 
ally a  small  thing  for  a  large  one.  To  point  the  moral 
in  this  case,  every  ripple  and  curl  of  Mrs.  Beaumont's 
lovely  hair  were  her  own.  Indeed,  so  luxuriously  it 
grew  that  to  dispose  of  such  an  embarrassment  of 
riches  sorely  taxed  the  skill  and  temper  of  her  maids. 

Arrived  at  the  gate  of  paradise,  Hummerstone  with- 
drew into  the  ambush  of  a  hedge  and  stood  gazing  up 
the  grounds  as  though  for  inspiration.  As  chance  had 
it  something  happened,  not  something  which  aided  the 
pursuit  of  his  fancy,  but  something  which  tended  in- 
directly to  the  forthcoming  of  those  he  regarded  as 
his  business  prospects. 

From  where  he  stood  he  presently  made  out  two 
figures  sauntering  down  the  drive.  As  observant  as 
he  was  shrewd  where  his  own  interests  were  con- 
cerned, in  a  moment  he  thought  he  had  recognised  one. 
Surely  the  svelte  and  alluring  shape  on  the  left  was  one 
he  knew  and  admired.  Yet  it  could  not,  of  course,  be 
Joan  .Kesteven.  Moonbank  would  be  the  last  place  in 
the  county  Lady  Kesteven  would  permit  her  daughter 
to  visit.  He  glanced  at  the  other.  To  his  disappoint- 
ment there  showed  no  amber  wig.  Only  a  dark-haired, 
pale  young  woman  of  a  type  which  did  not  interest  him. 

As  the  two  approached  he  heard  their  voices  in  a 
lively  and  apparently  a  heated  conversation.  Surely, 
he  decided  again,  that  was  Miss  Kesteven's  quick,  crisp 
way  of  speaking,  surely  that  clear,  strong  voice  was 
hers.  But  this  girl's  face  and  head  were  closely 
muffled  in  a  motor-hood  and  veil.  And  one  did  not 
need  to  have  known  Miss  Kesteven  long  to  have 
learned  that,  a  perfect  horsewoman,  she  had  a 
profound  contempt  for  all  mechanical  modes  of 
progression. 


A  Kiss  205 

Having  come  to  the  gate  the  two  girls  stopped  and 
concluded  their  discussion.  Then  they  laughed  and 
kissed  with  friendly  fervour.  They  parted  and  re- 
turned to  re-kiss  with  renewed  fervour. 

'''  You  dear  old  stupid,"  the  muffled  one  said  in  Joan 
Kesteven's  voice,  "  you're  absolutely  wrong." 

To  which  the  other  answered  laughingly : 

"  I'm  sure  I  am  right.  She  wore  a  rose-pink  Empire 
frock  and  diamonds  in  her  hair." 

Then,  as  her  friend  passed  out  through  the  gate,  she 
put  up  her  two  hands  and  curled  them,  shell-like,  about 
her  mouth. 

"  Good-bye  —  Miss  Smith,"  she  called  gaily. 

"  Good-bye  — •  Miss  Telescope,"  was  called  back  in 
Joan's  voice,  and  with  a  gush  of  Joan's  clear  laughter. 

Hummerstone  was  certain  it  was  she.  He  wedged 
his  large  person  closer  within  the  hollow  of  the  hedge. 
His  small  eyes  scanned  her  searchingly.  He  saw  her, 
with  an  air  of  impatience,  stop  and  look  up  and  down 
the  road.  Nobody  being  in  sight,  she  put  up  her  hands 
and  freed  herself  of  her  thick  hood  and  veil.  She 
drew  in  the  air  as  though  she  had  been  in  danger  of 
stifling.  She  rolled  the  hood  and  veil  into  a  bundle 
and  stuffed  them  into  a  satchel  she  was  carrying. 

Hummerstone  stepped  calmly  out  of  his  hiding-place 
and  confronted  her. 

She  was  taken  aback.  She  uttered  a  little  "  Oh !  " 
and  stared  up  at  him,  the  reds  and  whites  of  her  fine 
complexion  coming  and  going. 

He  extended  a  cool  hand. 

"  How  do !  "  he  said  impudently.  He  pointed  to  her 
bag.  "  Thought  you  hated  motoring." 

His  eyes  held  her  with  the  assurance  of  one  who  is 
master  of  the  situation. 

"  How  long  have  you  been  here  ?  Where  did  you 
suddenly  appear  from?" 

"  I  was  picking  blackberries  from  the  hedge."  He 
pointed  to  it. 


206  The  Whips  of  Time 

"  Blackberries  in  January !  "  she  commented  with  a 
curling  lip. 

"  Well,  I  was  looking  for  them.  How  is  a  Cockney 
to  know  what  month  such  things  come  into  season  ?  " 

"  Why  do  you  say  I  have  been  motoring?  " 

He  pointed  again  to  her  bag. 

"  I  saw  you  come  down  the  Moonbank  drive  wear- 
ing a  motoring  veil.  And  I  saw  you  take  it  off.  I 
suppose  while  you  were  hobnobbing  with  Mrs.  Beau- 
mont your  motor-gee  bolted." 

He  admired  the  sanguine  ebbing  and  flowing  in  her 
cheeks.  He  enjoyed  his  sense  of  power  and  her  dis- 
comfiture. 

"  How  do  you  know  anything  about  Moonbank  and 
Mrs.  Beaumont?  " 

She  had  been  thrown  off  her  guard  and  was  not  her 
cool  self.  In  every  word  and  look  she  was  further 
betraying  her  sense  of  guilt  and  her  fear  of  having 
been  found  out. 

"  I  am  interested  in  Miss  Kesteven's  friends  and  in 
Miss  Kesteven's  doings." 

"  It's  rotten  cheeky  of  you." 

"  No,"  he  said,  "  it's  my  misfortune,  not  my  fault, 
to  have  met  one  woman  in  my  life  who  makes  every- 
thing she  does  attractive,  even  when  they  are  things 
which  would  scandalise  the  county." 

She  eyed  him  resolutely. 

"  Look  here,"  she  said,  "  what  do  you  mean?  " 

"  Why,"  he  answered  firmly,  "  I  mean  that  Lady 
Kesteven  and  Mrs.  Tempest  and  Mr.  Hestroyde  would 
have  fits  if  they  knew  you  visited  Moonbank  and  were 
on  terms  with  the  Duke  —  " 

"  It's  a  lie,"  she  protested.  "  I  have  never  in  my 
life  spoken  to  him." 

"  Oh,  I  believe  you,"  he  said  with  an  air  of  sincerity. 
"  But  of  course  everybody  isn't  so  trusting  as  I  am. 
They  don't  believe  a  thing  just  because  it's  told  to  them. 
And  Mr.  Hestroyde  —  " 


A  Kiss  207 

"  —  believes  everything  I  tell  him." 

"  —  Mr.  Hestroyde,"  he  continued  imperturbably, 
"  would  be  frightfully  shocked  at  the  notion  of  the 
future  Mrs.  Hestroyde  making  a  bosom  friend  of  "  — 
he  spread  his  hands  and  seemed  to  drop  a  loathsome 
thing  —  "  of  Mrs.  —  Moonbank." 

"Let  him  be  shocked!"  she  said  truculently.  "I 
shall  do  just  as  I  like." 

She  continued  to  stand. 

"  Which  way  are  you  going  ?  "  he  inquired. 

"  The  way  you  are  not." 

"  Then  Mr.  Hestroyde  will  be  disappointed.  Be- 
cause I  was  on  my  way  to  Mowbreck." 

He  saw  that  she  winced.  He  saw  that  her  eyes 
sought  his  in  a  sudden  appeal.  But  he  showed  no  sign 
of  seeing  any  of  these  things.  He  raised  his  hat  with 
an  air  of  having  been  sadly  and  unjustly  wounded, 
then  turned  and  walked  down  the  road. 

He  heard  her  come  after  him.  Still,  showing  no 
sign  he  went  on.  She  still  followed.  He  guessed 
that  her  pride  and  her  fear  were  fighting  a  battle  in 
her.  Fear  won  the  day.  Although  Mark  was  her 
slave  she  knew  intuitively  that  there  were  things  he 
would  not  forgive  in  her.  Friendship  with  Mrs.  Beau- 
mont, she  suspected,  was  one  of  them. 

"  Mr.  Hummerstone,"  she  appealed. 

When  she  had  said  it  three  times  he  stopped  and 
looked  back. 

"  Oh,  you  are  walking  my  way,"  he  said.  "  So 
sorry.  I  understood  you  to  say  you  were  going  in  the 
other  direction." 

Meekness  was  not  among  her  virtues.  When  yield 
she  did  she  did  so  with  as  much  spirit  as  another  would 
have  shown  in  resisting. 

"  Look  here,"  she  said,  "  you're  not  to  tell  tales,  you 
know.  Mark  wouldn't  —  People  might  think  it  odd 
of  me  to  know  Mrs.  Beaumont." 

"  You  mean  you  visit  her  on  the  sly  ?  " 


208  The  Whips  of  Time 

Her  silence  consented. 

"  And  you  ask  me  not  to  speak  of  it?  " 

She  stood  fixing  him  with  obstinate,  sparkling  eyes. 
She  was  unwilling  to  admit  it  in  words.  But  Hummer- 
stone  was  merciless. 

"  Oh,  you  don't  ask  me  not  to  speak  of  it?  " 

She  laid  down  her  arms. 

"  Yes,  I  do,"  she  insisted  quickly.  She  added,  with 
some  anxiety,  "  I  beg  of  you  not  to  do  so." 

He  remained  looking  down  at  her.  He  felt  that  she 
was  at  his  mercy. 

"  What  will  you  give  me  if  I  promise  ?  " 

"Give  you?" 

"  I'm  sure  you'll  give  me  a  kiss,"  he  said  blandly. 
"  It  isn't  much  to  ask  for  holding  my  tongue  on  such 
a  spicy  bit  of  gossip." 

"  A  kiss !  "  she  repeated  incredulously.  "  You  ?  I 
never  heard  such  rotten  impudence.  I  scarcely  know 
you  —  " 

"  Oh,  that's  rubbish,"  he  said.  "  You  know  me  well 
enough  to  ask  a  favour  of  me.  And  any  woman  knows 
any  man  well  enough  to  kiss  him  if  she  knows  he  won't 
tell." 

He  looked  up  and  down  the  road.  It  was  deserted. 
It  was  usually  deserted.  She  was  standing  near  to 
him.  He  made  a  stride  and  put  a  large  arm  around 
her. 

"  There's  nothing  in  a  kiss  to  make  a  fuss  about," 
he  said,  "  and  in  this  wicked  world,  you  know,  you 
can't  get  something  for  nothing." 

He  stooped  and,  drawing  her  to  him,  kissed  her  once, 
twice,  three  times,  crushing  her  lips  with  his  coarse 
mouth.  The  first  time  she  pushed  angrily  at  him.  The 
second  time  her  hand  dropped.  The  third  time  she 
trembled  and  stood  passive. 

When  he  moved  on  she  remained  for  some  moments 
motionless.  Then,  as  though  following  some  blind 
instinct,  she  moved  after  him  and  walked  a  pace  behind 


A  Kiss  209 

him  down  the  road.  As  she  went  with  an  air  of  dazed 
submission  her  head  drooped  ashamed.  They  walked 
for  some  distance  in  silence,  her  eyes  bent  to  the 
ground,  his  eyes  from  time  to  time  stealing  round  upon 
her.  Each  time  they  found  her  a  small  complacent 
smile  leaked  beneath  his  red  moustache. 

Presently  he  spoke,  remarking  in  a  half  whisper,  as 
though  he  feared  to  break  a  spell,  upon  a  pretty  cottage 
nestling  by  the  road.  She  glanced  mechanically  at  it. 
She  assented  tonelessly  that  it  was  pretty  and  that  it 
suggested  love  in  a  cottage.  She  spoke  like  a  woman 
stupefied.  She  raised  her  eyes  and  looked  at  him 
surreptitiously.  There  was  a  sort  of  sickened  fascina- 
tion in  them.  He  returned  her  glance  with  smiling 
insolence.  A  little  shivering  movement  shook  her. 
He  spoke  again.  Again,  still  as  though  stupefied,  she 
acquiesced  in  what  he  said. 

As  they  approached  the  gates  of  Mowbreck  suddenly 
there  cantered  out  of  a  side  lane  into  the  road  before 
them  a  horse  and  rider ;  a  handsome,  clean-limbed  bay 
with  its  clean-limbed,  supple  rider  sitting  it  as  though 
he  had  been  a  part  of  it.  As  he  rode  out  from  the  lane 
his  profile  showed  grave  and  with  a  certain  exultation 
in  it.  He  did  not  turn  his  head,  but  engrossed  by  his 
thoughts  rode  on  before  them  and  up  through  the 
opened  gates. 

At  the  sight  of  him  she  came  violently  out  of  her 
stupefaction.  She  started  and  stopped,  all  her  body 
rigid.  In  her  eyes  was  a  guilty  fear.  She  stood  in  an 
attitude  of  shrinking  until  he  had  disappeared. 

Then  she  turned  and  looked  at  Hummerstone,  who 
too  had  stopped  and  was  watching  her,  surprised.  To 
the  roots  of  her  fair  hair  her  face  flushed  scarlet.  Her 
features  became  convulsed.  She  dashed  at  him  and, 
catching  up  one  of  his  hands,  caught  it  to  her  mouth 
and  bit  through  the  flesh  of  the  thumb  right  down  to 
the  bone.  Then  she  flung  it  from  her. 

"  You  beast!   You  brute!  "  she  cried  violently,  and 


210  The  Whips  of  Time 

ran  like  a  madwoman  up  that  lane  down  which  her 
lover  had  just  ridden. 

Hummerstone  looked  after  her  in  blank  amazement. 
Then  pain  recalled  him  to  his  injuries.  He  had  learned 
enough  of  medical  art  to  take  care  of  himself.  He  put 
up  his  bitten  thumb  and  sucked  it.  He  had  heard  of 
blood-poisoning  from  a  bite.  Then  he  bound  it  about 
with  his  handkerchief. 

"  What  a  she-devil !  "  he  muttered.  "  Who'd  have 
thought  it!  She'd  take  some  taming." 

He  embellished  his  remarks  with  adjectives  unsuit- 
able for  these  pages,  for  the  numbness  succeeding  on 
the  bite  of  her  strong  teeth  was  beginning  to  pass  into 
severe  aching.  Moreover,  he  had  experienced  a  check. 
Here,  now,  might  be  an  end  to  all  his  projects ! 


CHAPTER    XXIV 

A   REBUFF 

HE  passed  the  Mowbreck  gates  without  seeming  to 
observe  them.  And  yet  they  must  have  been  impressed 
upon  his  subconsciousness,  for  a  few  yards  beyond 
them  he  turned  sharply  round  and  went  back.  A 
dilatory  lodge-keeper  was  just  closing  them.  He 
passed  in  and  walked  up  the  long  drive,  the  old  house 
scowling  down  upon  him.  But  he  was  not  gifted  with 
imagination  and  he  saw  in  it  only  a  handsome  mansion 
which  must  cost  a  good  sum  to  keep  up. 

Perhaps  Hestroyde  had  seen  him  coming,  for  the 
servant  who  opened  the  door  told  him  that  his  master 
was  out.  But  Hummerstone,  in  his  present  mood  of 
mischief,  was  not  to  be  denied.  Pain,  a  desire  for 
retaliation,  a  determination  to  make  trouble  between 
these  two,  a  realisation  that  there  was  gain  to  be  made 
by  such  trouble,  were  seething  in  him. 

"  Oh,  yes,  Mr.  Hestroyde  is  in,"  he  insisted,  "  I  saw 
him  riding  up  the  drive.  Tell  him  I  have  something 
very  important  to  say  to  him." 

"  He  may  have  come  in  since,  sir,"  the  man  ad- 
mitted, overborne  by  his  self-confidence.  "  Will  you 
come  in,  please,  and  I  will  see?  " 

He  was  conducted  through  a  gloomy  passage  af- 
flicted by  a  plague  of  Hestroydes.  He  had  scarcely 
seated  himself  in  a  small  ante-room,  dark  with  ancient 
oak  and  faded  crimson,  when  Hestroyde  entered. 

He  was  still  in  his  riding-suit,  his  crop  in  a  hand. 
He  wore  his  accustomed  air  of  haughty  reserve,  but 


212  The  Whips  of  Time 

his  manner  was  courteous  and  welcoming,  although 
Hummerstone  was  conscious  of  an  Arctic  atmosphere 
which  came  with  him  into  the  room. 

"  How  do  you  do  ?  "  he  said,  shaking  hands.  "  I've 
only  just  come  in.  Been  riding  hard  all  day." 

The  Arctic  atmosphere  nipped  some  of  the  visitor's 
sprouting  assurance.  He  found  all  at  once  that  his 
presence  demanded  apology.  He  forced  a  smile,  but 
with  all  his  impudence  he  could  not  make  it  an  easy 
one. 

"  You  haven't  called  on  me,  I  know,"  he  said  rather 
lamely.  "  But  you  know  my  godfather,  Lowood,  so 
well,  and  —  and  I  suppose  you  don't  go  in  much  for 
ceremony  down  here,  do  you  ?  " 

"  Oh,  not  at  all,"  Hestroyde  said,  in  a  tone  so  purely 
conventional  that  nobody  could  have  mistaken  the 
remark  for  a  reply  to  Hummerstone's  question. 
"  Pleased  to  see  any  friend  of  Lowood's,  I'm  sure. 
Fine  clever  old  chap,  Lowood." 

"  Yes,"  Hummerstone  assented  eagerly,  grateful  for 
the  countenance  of  Lowood's  merits.  "  A  great  man 
in  the  medical  world.  Writes  books,  and  no  end  of  a 
swell.  Once  he  was  called  in  to  consultation  about  the 
King." 

"  Indeed,"  Hestroyde  said,  with  an  air  of  being 
impressed. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  Hummerstone  resumed,  gathering  con- 
fidence in  the  reflected  glow  of  his  godfather's  virtues, 
"  no  end  of  a  swell  in  the  medical  world,  he  is.  I'm 
quite  proud  to  be  his  godson." 

"  Had  tea?  "  Hestroyde  asked,  moving  to  the  bell, 
"  or  do  you  like  something  stronger  ?  " 

"  Well,  as  you  ask  me,  I  don't  mind  telling  you  I 
do,"  Hummerstone  told  him  with  a  familiar  laugh. 
He  began  to  feel  that  he  was  getting  on.  He  knew 
his  disabilities  with  men.  The  "  way  "  he  had  with 
women  for  some  reason  was  not  successful  with  his 
own  sex. 


A  Rebuff  213 

By  the  time  he  had  drunk  half  a  tumbler  of  whisky- 
and-soda,  with  an  eye  upon  a  flagon  of  cherry-whisky 
of  a  brand  he  knew  and  approved,  he  felt  equal  to  the 
task  before  him. 

"  I  say,"  he  began  confidentially,  suddenly  breaking 
away  from  the  platitudes  he  and  his  host  had,  with 
immense  threshing  of  wits,  contrived  to  beat  out  upon 
the  unsympathetic  floor  between  them,  "  I  say,  Mr. 
Hestroyde,  I  want  to  tell  you  something  in  confidence." 

The  dark  young  man,  although  he  had  an  excellent 
fire  at  his  back,  seemed  to  freeze  suddenly  upon  his 
hearthrug. 

"  Is  it  any  business  of  mine?  "  he  asked  discourag- 
ingly. 

"  I  should  say  so,"  Hummerstone  said.  "  It's  about 
the  one  person  in  the  world  you're  most  interested  in." 

The  other  lost  a  shade  of  colour  from  his  dark  skin, 
but  his  eyes  fastened  on  his  guest  without  a  quiver. 

"  How  do  you  know  who  I  am  most  interested  in  ?  " 

Hummerstone  laughed  beneath  a  knowing  eye. 

"  I  suppose  the  girl  a  chap  is  going  to  marry  can  be 
described  like  that  without  being  far  out  ?  " 

Hestroyde  so  far  further  froze  that  one  might  have 
expected  to  hear  the  beverage  in  the  glass  he  held 
clink  against  its  sides. 

"  For  my  part,"  he  said  distantly,  "  I  prefer  not  to 
hear  the  lady  I  am  going  to  marry  described  at  all." 

"  Of  course,"  Hummerstone  assented,  "  in  a  general 
way  you're  right.  But  I  have  something  very  impor- 
tant to  tell  you  about  Miss  Kesteven,  something  you 
ought  certainly  to  know." 

"  I  decline  to  hear  it,"  Hestroyde  rapped  out.  He 
set  his  glass  sharply  upon  the  mantelpiece  as  though 
setting  a  full  stop  to  hospitalities. 

Hummerstone  spread  his  pink,  flaccid  hands.  He 
created  always  an  impression  of  being  filled  with  red- 
dish sand  instead  of  with  blood.  He  was  dense  and 
dull  like  a  sandbag,  and  yet  when  one  tried  to  lay  hold 


214  The  Whips  of  Time 

upon  him  he  slipped  through  the  fingers  heavily  and 
easily. 

"  I  admit  you'd  be  right  in  a  general  way,"  he  said. 
"  I  admire  pride  and  all  that.  But  I've  seen  more  of 
life  than  you  have,  living  down  here.  And  I'm  doing 
this  for  the  girl's  own  good.  She's  risking  her  good 
name.  She's  —  " 

"  Are  you  speaking  of  Miss  Kesteven  ?  "  Hestroyde 
flashed  in,  in  a  voice  which  suggested  thunder  because 
it  flashed  sharp  and  jagged  like  lightning. 

"  Yes,"  Hummerstone  said,  "  I'm  warning  you  of  a 
great  danger  she's  running  into.  I'm  —  " 

"  Don't !  "  Hestroyde  snapped.  "  Try  some  cherry- 
whisky." 

Hummerstone  was  not  warned,  however. 

"  You  really  must  hear  me,"  he  insisted.  "  I  can't 
stand  by  and  see  a  nice  girl  like  that  doing  for  herself. 
The  truth  is  she's  hobnobbing  with  Mrs.  Beaumont  of 
Moonbank.  You  know  all  about  her,  of  course.  I've 
just  seen  Miss  Kesteven  come  out  of  the  house  and 
walk  down  the  drive  with  her  arm  round  the  woman, 
kissing  and  making  a  fuss  of  her." 

This  was  not  true,  of  course,  he  knew,  but  he  knew 
also  that  of  course  it  might  have  been  true.  If  with 
Mrs.  Beaumont's  niece,  why  not  equally  with  Mrs. 
Beaumont  ? 

Hestroyde,  despite  his  power  of  control,  was  young. 
Hummerstone  was  able  to  gather,  from  a  sudden  sharp 
contraction  of  his  brows,  that  the  blow  he  had  dealt 
was  a  heavy  one.  For  the  space  of  a  minute  he  was 
silent.  Then  he  summoned  his  control  and  spoke. 

"  I  assure  you,  you  are  mistaken,"  he  said  stifHy. 
"  Miss  Kesteven  has  never  met  or  spoken  with  —  that 
lady." 

"  But  I  saw  her  myself,"  Hummerstone  protested. 
"  I  have  only  just  now  parted  from  Miss  Kesteven  and 
she  admitted  it.  Facts  are  facts,  there's  no  getting 
over  them." 


A  Rebuff  215 

"  Miss  Kesteven  had  called,  no  doubt,  to  ask  for  a 
subscription  to  some  charity  —  Society  for  Prevention 
of  Cruelty  to  Animals  or  something." 

"  I'm  afraid  it  won't  do,"  Hummerstone  objected. 
"If  it  had  been  only  that  she  wouldn't  have  kissed  her. 
Besides,  when  I  caught  her  in  the  act  she  confessed. 
And  look  here,  she  even  asked  me  not  to  tell  you." 

A  quiver  passed  across  Hestroyde's  face.  This  proof 
of  Joan's  desire  to  stand  well  with  him  touched  him. 
Then  another  aspect  of  the  information  touched  him. 

"  And  you  have  come  straight  to  tell  me,"  he  said 
drily. 

Some  of  the  red  sand  in  his  large  body  seemed  to 
spurt  into  Hummerstone's  face.  Even  sand  responded 
to  Hestroyde's  scorn. 

"  I  thought  you  ought  to  know,"  the  informer 
blustered,  "  it's  only  right  for  you  to  know.  Girls 
don't  understand  these  things.  People  say  all  sorts 
of  things.  Who'll  believe  that  if  Miss  Kesteven  goes 
to  Moonbank  she  isn't  mixed  up  with  the  old  Duke?  " 

Hestroyde  gripped  the  crop  in  his  hand  with  a  vio- 
lent exclamation.  He  took  a  violent  step  toward  his 
guest.  Again  the  red  sand  shifted,  this  time  it  would 
seem  into  Hummerstone's  boots,  for  all  of  it  left  his 
face  and  left  it  deathly  white. 

"  I  don't  say  it,  of  course,"  he  protested  in  a  hurry, 
"  I  don't  think  it.  I'm  only  telling  you  for  Miss 
Kesteven's  good  what  other  people  will  think  and  say." 

Hestroyde  remained  gazing  at  him  and  breathing 
hard.  Then  he  seemed  to  recollect  himself.  He 
crossed  the  room,  and  having  set  down  his  crop  upon 
a  table,  as  though  he  were  putting  aside  a  temptation, 
he  returned  to  his  place  on  the  hearthrug.  He  forced 
a  chilling  reserve. 

"  Let's  talk  of  something  else,"  he  said  in  a  tone  of 
insolent  boredom.  He  added,  in  a  tone  of  more  inso- 
lent suggestion,  "  That  is  if  you  are  not  in  a  hurry  to 
get  back." 


216  The  Whips  of  Time 

This  was  too  much  even  for  the  red  sand.  A  hand- 
ful of  it  seemed  to  spurt  again  into  Hummerstone's 
face,  some  of  it  being  diverted  on  the  way  into  his 
throat,  compelling  him  to  give  a  little  spasmodic  choke. 
Perhaps  he  thought  to  wash  away  the  grit  by  finishing 
the  remainder  of  his  whisky-and-soda,  although  one 
might  have  supposed  that  pride  would  have  moved  him 
to  choke  rather  than  to  profit  by  the  hospitality  of  a 
host  who  showed  so  insolently  eager  to  be  rid  of  him. 
He  lost  his  self-possession.  He  ceased  to  have  the 
consistence  of  a  well-stuffed  sandbag  and  shambled  to 
his  feet  with  the  heavy  limpness  of  one  which  has 
leaked. 

"  I  am  rather  in  a  hurry,"  he  said,  his  words  falling 
one  over  another  in  their  haste  to  be  out.  "  But,  look 
here,  I  think  you're  making  a  bit  of  a  mistake.  I  know 
it  doesn't  look  well  ever  to  give  people  away,  especially 
women.  But  when  you  come  to  think  it  over  you'll  see 
you've  misjudged  me.  She  can't  know  how  serious 
it  is  or  she'd  never  do  it.  She  lays  herself  open  to 
people  saying  no  end  of  things.  And  I  thought  you'd 
be  the  best  person  to  tell  her.  And  then  "  —  he  stole 
a  glance  from  the  young  man's  angry  face  to  the 
riding-crop  on  the  distant  table,  and  having  done  so 
ended  his  sentence  with  a  placatory  smile  —  "  and  then 
you  don't  seem  to  like  it." 

Hestroyde  said  only,  as  though  he  had  not  listened 
to  a  word : 

"  Oh,  are  you  going?  "  He  rang  a  bell  and  nodded, 
ignoring  Hummerstone's  half-extended  hand.  His  air 
was  one  of  supreme  arrogance. 

Having  reached  the  door  Hummerstone  turned  a 
face  which  had  the  whiteness  to  be  seen  on  the  face 
of  a  person  who  picks  himself  up  after  a  bad  encounter. 

."  Look  here,"  he  appealed,  "  at  all  events  you  won't 
say  a  word  to  Miss  Kesteven?  She  might  misunder- 
stand my  motive." 

"  I  shall  not  mention  your  name  to  Miss  Kesteven," 


A  Rebuff  217 

Hestroyde  retorted,  with  a  laugh  which  stung  like  a 
whip. 

But  the  moment  the  door  had  closed  one  could 
scarcely  have  suspected  a  man  of  the  face  he  showed 
of  ever  having  laughed.  He  became  possessed  by  a 
fit  of  ungovernable  fury.  His  eyes  scintillated  in  his 
dark  face.  He  seemed  to  leap  across  the  room  and, 
pouncing  upon  his  riding-crop,  he  caught  it  up  and 
struck  the  table  with  it  several  times  violently.  For 
the  moment  he  was  the  living  embodiment  and  heir  of 
all  the  ugliness  of  the  ugly  forbears  surrounding  him. 

He  was  furious  that  Joan  should  have  done  this 
thing,  that  the  woman  he  loved  and  his  future  wife 
should  visit  and  should  kiss  —  Faugh !  this  shame- 
less, nameless  creature;  that  she  should  deceive  him, 
should  lay  herself  open  to  detection  and  betrayal  by 
that  unspeakable  bounder  Hummerstone,  should  lay 
herself  open  to  the  gossip  and  the  condemnation  of  the 
county.  His  own  helplessness  in  the  matter  still 
further  enraged  him.  Nothing  he  could  say  or  do 
would  in  the  least  assist  her  to  extricate  herself  from 
the  disgraceful  and  mortifying  muddle  into  which  she 
had  blundered.  Nor,  he  feared,  knowing  her  obsti- 
nacy, would  anything  he  could  say  or  do  restrain  her 
from  still  further  involving  herself. 

She  had  been  right  when  she  dreaded  for  him  to 
learn  of  it.  As  he  consumed  himself  with  rage  and 
with  mortification  he  felt  that  he  could  more  easily 
have  forgiven  anything  to  her  than  this. 


CHAPTER    XXV 

A    LOVERS'    QUARREL 

WHEN  three  days  had  passed  without  a  glimpse  or  a 
word  from  Mark,  Joan  guessed  what  had  happened. 
The  two  first  days  she  had  been  too  angry  with  herself 
for  submitting  as  she  had  done  to  Hummerstone's  kiss 
to  feel  more  than  a  languid  surprise  at  her  lover's 
defection.  From  being  a  haunting  he  had  become  a 
wholly  absent  shadow. 

Yet  for  the  first  two  days  his  absence  relieved  her. 
She  recoiled  from  the  notion  of  meeting  him  while 
the  memory  of  those  large,  loose  lips  on  hers,  and  while 
her  sense  of  despicable  guilt  at  her  minutes  of  squaw- 
like  surrender  were  fresh  in  her  mind.  She  should 
have  been  equally  ashamed  of  her  equally  squaw-like 
retaliation.  But  I  am  bound  to  confess  that  this  caused 
her  nothing  but  exultation.  The  athletic  out-door  life, 
although  it  induces  some  honest,  healthy  qualities, 
destroys  the  more  subtle  and  finer  shades  of  feeling 
both  in  man  and  in  woman.  I  suspect,  like  other  good 
things,  it  should  be  taken  in  moderation. 

When  the  evening  of  the  third  day  arrived  without 
news  of  Mark,  or  a  note,  or  a  basket  of  flowers,  she 
knew  that  Hummerstone  had  betrayed  her.  Immedi- 
ately every  other  consideration  vanished.  Hummer- 
stone  and  his  kisses  became  mere  surface  troubles. 
What  would  Mark  do?  Would  he  forgive  her?  She 
knew  his  hot  pride,  his  temper,  his  will  like  a  string  of 
steel.  Would  he  throw  her  over? 

She  could  not  sit  still  and  nurse  her  panic.    She  got 


A  Lovers'  Quarrel  219 

up  and  restlessly  paced  the  room.  She  set  a  full  stop 
to  each  minute  of  pacing  by  pausing  at  a  window  to 
sweep  the  drive  for  an  approaching  figure. 

"  Dear  Joan,"  Lady  Kesteven  said  plaintively,  when 
five  minutes  of  this  strenuous  restlessness  had  got  upon 
her  nerves,  "  can  you  not  sit  still  ?  What  is  the 
matter  ?  " 

"  Oh,  nothing,"  Joan  answered,  and  remained  on  her 
full  stop  before  the  window.  Then  she  moved  to  the 
couch  on  which  the  invalid  lay,  beautifully  darning  one 
of  Joan's  fine  silk  stockings.  "  Mark  is  frightfully 
unforgiving,  don't  you  think,  Mater?"  she  said  ear- 
nestly. 

Lady  Kesteven  gathered  that  Hestroyde's  three 
days'  absence  had  had  a  reason,  of  which  her  wayward 
daughter  was  the  cause.  Joan  very  seldom  appealed 
to  her  or  to  anybody  for  sympathy.  Now,  however, 
her  eyes  and  a  certain  tension  in  her  features  begged 
it. 

"  Perhaps,  dear,"  she  said.  She  added,  with  a  little 
reassuring  smile,  "  To  anyone  but  you." 

Joan  shook  her  head. 

"  Some  things,"  she  said,  "  he  would  forgive  in 
anybody  rather  than  in  me." 

"  Perhaps,  dear,"  her  elder  said  again.  "  But  those 
are  the  things  you  would  not  do,  I  hope." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know,"  Joan  disclaimed.  "  I  can 
never  be  sure  what  I  will  or  won't  do.  And  Mark  has 
a  beastly  temper." 

"  But  Mark  is  absurdly  fond  of  you." 

"  And  yet  the  exasperating  thing  is  that  sometimes 
a  man  is  so  horribly  particular,  and  sets  ridiculous 
importance  on  things  that  don't  really  matter,  just 
because  he  is  fond  of  one." 

Again  she  got  restlessly  to  her  feet  and  began  to 
pace  the  room.  Then  she  remembered. 

"  Sorry,  Mater,"  she  said,  "  I  forgot  your  poor 
nerves.  I'll  go  out  and  trot  it  off." 


220  The  Whips  of  Time 

"  Do,"  her  mother  said.  "  You  seem  to  be  filled 
with  restless  energy."  She  sighed.  "  I'm  always 
thankful  when  I  see  your  fine  health  that  I  didn't  trans- 
mit my  wretched  nerves  and  feebleness  to  you." 

Joan  laid  a  quick,  strong  hand  on  the  frail  one 
affectionately  busy  upon  her  stockings.  (Lady  Kes- 
teven  would  allow  nobody  but  herself  to  mend  Joan's 
stockings. ) 

"  Sometimes,  I  think,"  she  submitted  earnestly, 
"  that  compared  with  you  I'm  only  a  rough  animal. 
I  don't  begin  to  know  or  to  feel  any  of  the  nice  things 
you  feel,  Mater.  You've  got  a  mind  like  a  —  like  a 
harp.  A  touch  brings  music  out  of  it." 

Lady  Kesteven  caught  the  strong  hand  to  her  lips. 
They  quivered  while  they  kissed  it.  She  loved  Joan 
with  a  passionate  intensity.  But  Joan  seldom  allowed 
herself  to  be  loved  or  caressed. 

"  A  poor  old,  worn-out  harp,  dear,"  she  said  rue- 
fully, "  overlaid  with  dust  and  fit  only  for  the  lumber 
room." 

"  Oh,  but  that's  rubbish,"  Joan  protested  brusquely, 
by  the  very  sincerity  of  her  affectionate  protest  jarring 
the  invalid's  nerves  and  setting  her  hands  to  tremble. 

"  Any  room  where  you  are  is  —  well,  it's  different 
from  any  other  place.  It's  restful  and  good  and  seems 
to  be  filled  with  lovely  influences.  The  only  time  I 
feel  good  is  when  I'm  with  you.  If  it  hadn't  been  for 
you,  Heaven  knows  what  sort  of  a  wretch  I  should 
have  been !  " 

She  caught  herself  up. 

"  Gracious !  I'm  talking  like  a  Sunday  school.  I'll 
go  out  and  trot  it  off." 

She  gave  an  affectionate  squeeze  of  the  hand  to  the 
invalid  and  left  her. 

Outside  the  house  the  keen  air  of  a  February  which 
instead  of  filling  dykes  was  freezing  them,  caused  her 
spirits  and  her  independence  to  rise,  reactionary. 

"  In  for  a  penny,  in  for  a  pound,"  she  told  herself. 


A  Lovers'  Quarrel  221 

"If  Mark  really  makes  up  his  mind  I  suppose  I  shall 
have  to  give  up  seeing  much  of  Alma  and  Beauty.  So 
as  he  hasn't  chosen  to  come  and  see  me  himself  I'll  pay 
what  perhaps  will  be  my  last  visit  for  some  time  to 
Moonbank." 

But  Mrs.  Beaumont  and  Alma  had  gone  to  London 
for  a  day's  shopping.  She  returned  down  the  drive  in 
a  mood  of  dejected  aimlessness.  Stopping  in  the  road 
outside  to  divest  herself  of  the  trappings  of  the  myth- 
ical Miss  Smith,  she  was  suddenly  confronted  by  her 
lover,  who  appeared,  as  Hummerstone  had  done  a  few 
days  earlier,  to  spring  out  of  the  hedge. 

"What  have  you  been  doing  at  Moonbank?"  he 
asked  angrily. 

"  So  you've  been  spying  on  me,"  she  retorted,  trying 
to  gauge  from  his  face  the  degree  of  his  anger.  Then, 
pleased  to  see  him  after  his  unprecedented  absence,  she 
smiled  up  at  him. 

"  Why  haven't  you  been  to  see  me?  "  she  said  in  a 
coaxing  voice. 

"  Give  me  an  answer,"  he  insisted.  "  What  do  you 
mean  by  going  to  Moonbank,  by  being  seen  at  such  a 
house?  " 

"  Why,  it's  a  lovely  house,"  she  said  banteringly. 
"  All  marble  and  flowers  and  silver.  Mark,  I  thought 
you  had  taste." 

"  You  know  well  enough  that  it  isn't  fit  for  you  to 
set  foot  in.  You  must  know  the  sort  of  person  Mrs. 
Beaumont  is." 

"  She's  a  very  nice  person,"  she  flashed  out.  "  She 
and  Alma  Wenlith  live  as  quietly  and  respectably  as 
nuns.  What  harm  can  I  get  in  going  sometimes  to  see 
them?" 

"  I  say  nothing  about  Miss  Wenlith.  But  the  other 
is  —  Joan,"  he  broke  out,  "  she  is  pitch  for  you  to 
touch." 

"  Beautiful  pitch.  Mark,  it's  all  rubbish.  You 
know  nothing  about  her.  She's  as  quiet  as  a  child,  not 


222  The  Whips  of  Time 

half  so  rapid  or  so  slangy  as  I  am.  And  Alma  is  a 
dear,  and  frightfully  clever." 

"  I  don't  say  a  word  about  her,  nor  personally  about 
the  other.  I  know  nothing  of  either.  I  judge  by  the 
circumstances  and  say  it  isn't  a  fit  house  for  you  to 
visit." 

She  was  relieved  to  find  that  he  was  rational  enough 
for  quiet  discussion.  She  knew  her  power  over  him, 
and  that  when  he  would  talk  over  things  the  battle  was 
always  to  her.  It  was  only  in  his  fits  of  unreasoning 
temper,  when  he  would  neither  listen  nor  talk,  that  she 
wholly  feared  him.  In  such  she  knew  him  to  be  capable 
of  casting  everything,  even  her,  to  the  winds  of  his 
blind  angers. 

Her  experience  with  Hummerstone  had  profoundly 
mortified  her.  It  had  shown  to  her  another  of  those 
which  she  described  to  herself  as  "  rotten  spots  "  in  her 
of  which  she  was  afraid.  By  contrast  she  saw  Mark 
and  her  affection  for  him  as  higher  influences  which 
uplifted  her  above  the  level  of  such  spots.  After  his 
three  days'  absence  he  seemed  to  her  to  be  so  high  and 
handsome  as  to  induce  a  mood  in  her  of  rare  humility. 

"  Mark,"  she  said  seriously,  "  who  knows  that  the 
Duke  and  Mrs.  Beaumont  are  not  really  married  and 
that  the  marriage  is  for  some  reason  being  kept  secret  ? 
She  seems  like  any  other  woman." 

He  scoffed. 

"  A  man  in  his  position  does  not  allow  his  wife  and 
her  reputation  to  lie  under  such  a  shadow.  You  have 
no. business  to  sit  in  the  same  room  with  such  a  person, 
to  breathe  the  same  air.  Why,"  he  added  peevishly, 
"  do  you  attempt  to  defend  your  folly,  Joan  ?  You  run 
the  risk  of  all  sorts  of  things  being  said.  You  must 
know  you  do." 

She  rolled  up  her  green  eyes  seductively. 

"Well,  what  are  you  going  to  do  about  it?"  she 
challenged  him. 

His  face  fell. 


A  Lovers'  Quarrel  223 

"  What  can  I  do  ?  "  he  asked.  "  I  can  only  beg  of 
you  not  to  commit  such  follies  again,  Joan.  Joan,  I 
beg  of  you  not  to  go  near  these  persons  again." 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  I  can't  do  that,"  she  said.  "  I  don't  say  it  was 
wise  of  me  to  know  them,  seeing  how  rottenly  people 
talk,  though  they're  not  all  saints  themselves.  But 
having  made  friends  with  them  I  should  be  a  cat  to  stop 
going  all  at  once.  Besides,  Mrs.  Beaumont  ought  to 
be  given  the  benefit  of  the  doubt.  Alma  is  certain  the 
Duke  and  her  aunt  are  married  and  that  the  secret  is 
kept  for  State  reasons.  She  has  never  heard  anything 
else.  She's  frightfully  proud.  I  believe  she  would 
drown  herself  if  she  discovered.  Some  day  I  suppose 
she  will  discover  the  truth  —  if  it  is  the  truth." 

"  Why  have  you  mixed  yourself  up  in  such  things?  " 
he  said  in  the  same  peevish  tone.  "  In  some  ways  you 
are  so  sensible." 

"  I  like  to  see  things  for  myself.  And  Mrs.  Beau- 
mont is  so  lovely  and  Alma  a  dear.  Besides,  you  are 
leaving  out  the  most  important  part  —  my  sense  made 
me  go  in  a  disguise.  The  servants  know  me  as  '  Miss 
Smith.'  Nobody  has  a  notion  that  Miss  Kesteven  is  on 
visiting  terms  with  Moonbank." 

"  Servants  aren't  easily  deceived.  No  doubt  they 
know  perfectly  well  who  you  are,  and  the  disguise  only 
makes  the  thing  seem  worse.  Joan,  for  Heaven's  sake, 
don't  go  again.  Well  and  good  if  you  really  have  es- 
caped being  known.  But  don't  run  more  risks." 

Again  she  shook  her  head. 

"  I  couldn't  all  at  once  desert  them,"  she  insisted 
staunchly,  "  it  would  be  simply  rotten.  But,  Mark, 
as  you're  so  mad  about  it "  (she  glanced,  laughing,  at 
his  rueful  face)  "  I  promise  you  not  to  go  often. 
Really,  I  won't.  And  nobody  shall  ever  find  me  out." 

She  moved  up  to  him  and  slid  her  arm  within  his. 
She  sighed. 

"  Old  Mark,  don't  let  us  quarrel,"  she  said  earnestly. 


224  The  Whips  of  Time 

"  That  day  when  you  asked  me  and  I  said  *  Yes  '  I  told 
you  I  wasn't  sure."  Her  voice  dropped.  "  I'm  sure 
now.  You're  the  only  man  in  the  world  I  really  care 
about,  and  you're  the  only  man  in  the  world  I  could 
say  this  to.  But  you  must  take  me  as  I  am.  There  are 
twisty  ways  in  me,  I  admit,  ways  I  can't  help.  But 
I'm  fond  of  you." 

The  hedges  and  ditches  outside  Moonbank  seemed 
destined  to  witness  caresses.  But,  I  think,  if  Joan,  his 
wayward,  strong-willed  Joan,  had  so  spoken  and  clung 
to  his  arm  in  Hyde  Park,  Hestroyde  could  not  have 
helped  taking  her  into  his  arms  as  he  now  did  and 
straining  her  in  silence  to  him. 

Then  they  walked  down  the  road  together,  hand  in 
hand,  perfect  peace  and  high  spirits  between  them. 
After  all,  Hestroyde  was  thinking,  was  she  not  good 
enough  and  strong  enough  and  straight  enough  to  be 
able  even  to  touch  pitch  without  defilement?  She 
asked  him  to  take  her  as  she  was.  Good  Lord !  Was 
he  good  enough  to  tie  her  shoe  ? 

When  they  came  to  that  lane  out  of  which  three 
days  before  he  had  ridden  into  the  road  as  she  had 
followed  Hummerstone,  memory  flashed  a  picture  into 
her.  Before  it  her  peace  and  her  high  spirits  went 
down.  She  was  conscious  of  nothing  but  hatred.  She 
stopped  and  loosed  her  lover's  arm. 

"  I  want  you  to  promise  me  something,"  she  said 
through  her  clenched  teeth.  The  pupils  in  her  green 
eyes  contracted. 

He  smiled  down  at  her. 

"  I'd  rather  hear  it  first." 

"  Well,  I  want  you  to  take  a  horsewhip  and  to  horse- 
whip that  cad  Hummerstone  until  "  —  her  pupils  flew 
suddenly  wide  till  the  whole  eye  looked  as  though  made 
of  black  velvet,  her  face  turned  a  dull  crimson  — 
"  until,"  she  concluded,  dwelling  on  each  word  as 
though  it  had  been  a  sweetmeat,  "  until  he  is  covered 
with  blood  from  head  to  foot." 


A  Lovers'  Quarrel  225 

"  Joan !  "  he  said,  staring  at  her.  He  was  conscious 
of  a  little  disgust.  She  paid  no  heed  to  his  disgust. 

"  And  if  you  will  not  do  it  for  me,"  she  continued, 
"  I'll  get  Bobby  Legh  to  do  it.  And  I'll  marry  him 
instead  of  you  because  he  has  done  it." 

"  What  have  you  against  Hummerstone  ?  " 

"He  carried  tales  of  me  to  you,  Mark.  How  dared 
you,  dared  you  listen  ?  " 

He  shook  his  head  in  faint  denial.  The  cad  had 
begged  his  silence. 

"  Oh,  don't  tell  me  lies,"  she  cried.  She  paused,  then 
said  deliberately,  "  And  that  is  not  all.  He  kissed  me 
by  force  in  the  road  on  Tuesday.  And  now,  if  you 
have  a  spark  of  decent  manliness  in  you,  go  and  get 
your  horsewhip  and  horsewhip  him  till  he  is  covered 
with  blood  from  head  to  foot." 

She  laughed  at  the  effect  of  her  words.  It  was  not 
a  pleasant  laugh  to  hear.  But  Hestroyde  did  not  hear 
it.  Almost  before  she  had  finished  her  speech  he  had 
gone  down  the  road  as  swift  and  as  light  and  as 
straight  as  an  arrow  shot  from  a  bow  by  a  strong  and 
skilful  hand. 

In  what  manner  Hestroyde  wreaked  his  rage  and 
avenged  his  lady-love  I  cannot  say.  I  do  not  think  it 
is  possible  by  means  of  a  horsewhip  to  induce  the 
dramatic  and  gory  results  which  Joan's  thirst  for  ven- 
geance demanded.  But  I  have  learned  from  Lowood 
that  on  a  pleasant  afternoon  at  about  this  date  Hum- 
merstone staggered  into  Homer  Cottage  with  his  coat 
in  shreds,  a  lip  badly  cut,  a  bleeding  nose,  an  eye  rapidly 
closing,  and  "a  general  air  of  breathless  exhaustion,  as 
of  a  man  who  had  come  off  badly  in  a  fight. 

For  a  time  he  was  too  spent  to  enter  into  explana- 
tions. Lowood,  good  Christian  that  he  was,  attended 
to  his  needs,  and  soon  had  him  somewhat  restored  and 
with  a  cold  water  compress  bandaged  over  his  closing 
eye.  For  a  time  he  seemed  disposed  to  weep,  but  a 


226  The  Whips  of  Time 

draught  of  strong,  hot  tea  checked  this  disposition. 
Presently  he  explained  brokenly  that  he  had  missed  his 
footing  in  descending  a  steep  bit  of  mountain  and  had 
fallen,  fallen,  fallen,  he  said,  over  stones  and  through 
hedges,  until  he  thought  he  should  never  have  stopped 
falling. 

Lowood,  from  his  medical  experiences,  knew  some- 
thing of  personal  injuries,  however.  Hummerstone's 
injuries  were  such  as  he  believed  could  have  resulted 
only  from  one  brutal,  albeit  effectual,  weapon,  the  fist 
of  mortal  man. 

"  So  my  wish  after  all  was  verified,"  he  reflected, 
perhaps  out  of  the  kindness  of  his  heart,  now  that  it 
had  been  verified,  regretful  that  he  had  wished  it. 
"  The  fool,  after  all,  went  to  Moonbank  and  blundered 
upon  the  Duke." 

But  I  cannot  say  that  any  of  his  regrets  remained 
when,  on  the  following  morning,  Hummerstone  packed 
up  his  impedimenta,  leaving  nothing  behind  him  save 
the  rent  coat,  and  went  home  to  his  father. 

"  I  suppose,  after  all,  there's  nothing  left  for  me  but 
to  take  up  this  infernal  medicine  business,"  he  grumbled 
savagely. 

In  his  underbred  rage  he  omitted  to  express  one 
word  of  gratitude  for  the  month  of  hospitality  Lo- 
wood had  extended  to  him. 

Lowood  knew  men  and  life,  and  when  Polly  dis- 
gusted him  by  openly  mourning  and  refusing  to  be 
comforted  for  the  loss  of  her  hero,  he  consoled  her 
by  saying: 

"  He'll  come  back  again,  Polly,  never  fear.  Have 
you  never  heard  the  proverb  of  the  bad  penny  ?  " 

Whereat  Polly  plucked  up  heart,  and  the  cue  being 
given  to  her  repeated  cheerfully : 

"  One  a  penny,  two  a  penny,  hot  cross  buns !  " 


CHAPTER    XXVI 

PLAYING    WITH    FIRE 

BURGHWALLIS,  finding  a  special  charm  in  Alma  Wen- 
lith's  society,  slipped  back  into  his  old  habit  of  visiting 
Moonbank.  He  was  perfectly  aware  that  in  doing  so 
he  was  acting  in  defiance  not  only  of  prudence,  but 
contrary  to  certain  prickings  of  conscience.  The  situ- 
ation was  a  dangerous  one. 

Alma  was  no  longer  a  child,  no  longer  even  that 
young  person  on  the  borderland  between  child  and 
woman  in  whom  it  is  impossible  for  an  adult  man  to 
become  very  deeply  interested.  She  was  a  woman,  not 
only  personally  attractive  because  of  looks  which  were 
wholly  charming,  and  grey  eyes  which  haunted,  but 
because  also  of  her  engaging  sympathy  and  her  rare 
order  of  mind. 

No  doubt  our  faulty  methods  are  to  blame,  but  with 
a  number  of  women  to  develop  their  brains  means  to 
develop  the  masculine  side  of  their  brains,  thus  spoiling 
their  specialised  womanly  qualities.  But  Alma's  wom- 
anliness was  too  inherent  to  be  spoiled.  It  was  not 
a  matter  merely  of  a  few  false  curves  and  pigments 
which  Nature,  for  her  own  purposes,  lends  to  women 
out  of  her  property  shop  for  half  a  dozen  years.  It 
was  womanliness  from  soul  to  finger-tips.  If  you  had 
put  the  minutest  cell  of  her  beneath  a  microscope  the 
woman  sex  would  have  been  apparent  in  it  —  suppos- 
ing, that  is,  that  we  had  the  key  to  sex. 

It  is  only  men  weaklings  to  whom  masculine  women 
are  attractive.  To  such  men  such  women  are  stays  and 
props  on  which  for  helplessness  to  lean.  To  the  truly 


228  The  Whips  of  Time 

manly  man  no  spell  in  all  the  world  compares  with  the 
glamour  irresistible  of  true  womanliness. 

Accordingly  Burghwallis,  in  defiance  of  prudence 
and  of  conscience,  returned  again  and  again  to  enjoy 
the  rare  companionship  of  a  mind  and  of  a  nature 
which  were  all  womanly  for  their  exquisite  delicacy 
and  emotional  quality,  and  yet  were  as  strong  and  as 
true  as  were  his  own  man's  mind  and  nature.  Habit 
determines  action.  And  men  of  his  set,  who  have  been 
free  all  their  lives  to  do  the  thing  that  pleases  them, 
find  it  more  difficult  to  forego  doing  this  than  do  men 
whose  lot  has  been  cast  in  less  easy  lines. 

He  formulated  nothing.  He  merely  drifted  pleas- 
antly down  a  smoothly-gliding  stream,  not  wholly  un- 
mindful that  there  were  possible  rapids  in  its  course. 
If  he  considered  consequences  he  told  himself  that  at 
any  moment,  when  he  should  find  the  situation  becom- 
ing too  strong  for  him,  he  could  "  cut  "  it  and  go 
abroad  as  he  had  done  before. 

Opinion  changes  from  century  to  century.  And 
with  the  greater  independence  and  freedom  of  women 
men  no  longer  accept  the  old-fashioned  doctrine  —  the 
good,  old-fashioned  doctrine  —  that  to  woman,  by 
reason  of  her  more  emotional  temperament  and  of  the 
world's  estimate  of  any  lapse  on  her  part,  man  owes 
the  chivalrous  tenderness  which  will  protect  her  even 
from  himself. 

I  cannot  say  that  the  good  old-fashioned  view,  fine 
and  chivalrous  though  it  was,  did  very  much  in  prac- 
tice to  protect  women.  It  was,  at  all  events,  a  higher 
creed  than  that  which  prevails  to-day  —  the  creed  that 
women  are  eminently  capable  of  looking  after  their 
own  interests,  and  that  men,  meeting  them  therefore 
on  equal  grounds,  may  fairly  take  all  they  can  get  with- 
out concerning  themselves  with  obsolete  heroics. 

Burghwallis  was  above  the  average,  however.  He 
suffered  himself  to  drift  idly  down  a  pleasant  stream, 
but  he  had  no  goal  in  view.  The  fact  that  he  had 


Playing  with  Fire  229 

known  Alma  as  a  child,  rather  than  his  code  of  ethics, 
safeguarded  her  against  designs  on  his  part.  More- 
over, their  comradeship  was  so  essentially  a  comrade- 
ship of  mind  as  to  throw  dust  in  his  eyes  when  he 
considered  possible  dangers.  Heavens!  what  harm 
could  there  be  in  talking  astronomy  and  higher  ethics  ? 

More  frequently  than  not  he  checked  wholesomely, 
albeit  playfully,  her  romanticism  and  impracticable 
ideals,  by  his  saner  standard  of  worldly  knowledge 
and  experience.  What  harm  in  talking  of  flowers  and 
dogs  and  horses?  He  set  a  guard  upon  himself.  On 
no  occasion  did  he  lapse  into  sentiment,  nor  employ 
upon  her  arts  of  blandishment  and  masculine  subjuga- 
tion of  which  he  was  somewhat  a  master. 

She  no  longer  offered  her  cheek  to  him.  She  had  at 
once  accepted  the  distance  he  had  placed  between  them, 
although  perhaps  she  wondered  sometimes  at  a  footing 
which  was  rather  constrained  for  an  uncle  and  niece. 

When  he  thought  about  it  he  dismissed  it  as  absurd 
to  vex  his  soul  about  a  relation  so  platonic  and  correct. 
If  they  were  not  niece  and  uncle  they  might  well  have 
been  for  the  lack  of  emotion  between  them.  He  could 
not  deny  that  he  found  her  sometimes  dangerously 
attractive  —  that  when  she  talked,  even  although  the 
subject  were  astronomy,  his  attention  was  so  far  en- 
grossed by  the  play  of  her  grey  eyes,  by  her  voice,  by 
the  movements  of  her  flower-mouth,  by  the  lighting 
of  her  mobile  face,  that  he  lost  the  words  of  the  partic- 
ular 'ology  for  which  these  were  the  peg. 

Once  when,  fondling  Janita  for  some  pretty  intelli- 
gence the  little  dog  had  shown,  Alma  stooped  and 
affectionately  kissed  the  gentle,  silken  head,  Burgh- 
wallis  had  risen  to  his  feet  with  a  sudden  swirl  of 
passion.  He  was  overmastered  by  a  hot  desire  to 
take  her  hands,  to  touch  her  hair,  to  touch  the  petals 
of  the  lips  she  wasted  on  a  dog.  But  the  impulse  had 
passed  in  the  presence  of  her  candid  unconsciousness. 

To  himself  his  outburst  needed  no  very  profound 


230  The  Whips  of  Time 

explanation.  He  knew  himself  a  man  of  ardent  blood. 
It  was  natural  enough  and  had  no  particular  signifi- 
cance that  he  should  wish  to  kiss  her.  There  was  a 
fine  and  exquisite  finish  about  her  which  seemed  to 
him  to  be  more  beautiful  than  beauty.  It  showed 
like  a  spiritual  attribute,  a  physical  perfection  which 
appealed  to  the  sense  as  a  virtue.  He  thought  her 
little,  shell-like  ears,  set  with  so  much  grace  against 
her  delicate  head,  must  catch  finer  vibrations  than 
were  audible  to  cruder  ears.  Her  grey  eyes  showed 
luminous  with  visions.  In  her  company  a  man  was 
ashamed  to  think  coarsely. 

Mrs.  Beaumont  watched  the  progress  of  these  things. 
The  progress  seemed  to  be  so  satisfactory  that  it 
smoothed  perhaps  the  single  crumpled  rose-leaf  on  her 
lace  pillow  —  an  anxiety  for  Alma's  future.  For  was 
not  Alma  on  her  way  to  a  Moonbank  of  her  own? 
Moreover,  when  Alma  should  have  established  herself 
in  her  Moonbank  that  long-delayed  but  inevitable  dis- 
covery, the  dread  of  which  sometimes  pricked  her  — 
the  revelation  of  her  own  anomalous  position  —  would 
come  so  much  more  easily. 

It  had  been  a  May  day  in  March,  the  air  deliciously 
warm,  the  sunshine  seeming  to  sleep  on  the  earth  as  on 
a  silken  bed.  Beneath  the  warmth,  like  a  cool  linen 
sheet  beneath  an  eider  quilt,  lay  an  invigorating  touch 
of  north  wind. 

Burghwallis,  tired  of  Piccadilly  and  of  functions, 
and  the  fatiguing  exertions  incumbent  upon  picking 
a  wary  way  among  the  matrimonial  nets  and  wiles 
which  designing  mothers  and  widows  and  girls  assidu- 
ously spread  for  his  eligible  feet,  had  cast  off  the  dust 
of  such  pitfall  hospitalities  and  had  escaped  to  Scrope- 
Denton  for  a  long  day  of  sweet  air  and  of  quiet  and 
candid  affectionate  comradeship. 

By  some  mischance  the  wire  he  had  sent  to  announce 
his  coming  had  been  delayed.  There  was  no  carriage, 


Playing  with  Fire  231 

therefore,  to  meet  him  at  the  station.  This  pricked  his 
temper,  and  in  his  bored  and  rather  dejected  mood  gave 
him  an  irrational  sense  of  being  unwelcome.  A  peevish 
impulse  to  return  by  the  next  train  ruffled  his  mind. 
Then  he  reflected  that  of  course  for  some  reason  the 
carriage  had  been  delayed  and  that  he  would  meet  it  on 
his  road  up.  He  declined  the  uninviting  local  fly,  rick- 
ety and  powdered  with  March  dust,  and  proceeded  to 
walk  up  to  Moonbank. 

It  was  a  distance  of  four  miles. 

He  had  dined  out  the  previous  evening  and  had 
afterwards  gone  to  a  dance  —  one  of  the  early  dances 
by  which  vigilant  mothers,  who  get  up  before  the 
season,  propose  to  catch  early  worms.  The  result  had 
been  that  when  his  servant  had  called  him  he  had 
turned  over  and  had  fallen  asleep  again.  When  he  was 
obsequiously  waked  a  second  time  it  was  so  late  that 
he  had  been  compelled  to  make  a  choice  between  break- 
fast and  his  projected  excursion  to  Scrope-Denton. 

His  body  demanded  breakfast.  His  soul  asked  a 
tranquil  day.  Unusual  to  relate,  his  soul  had  the  vic- 
tory. He  had  dashed  out  of  his  bath  and  into  his 
clothes  with  so  much  expedition  that  he  contrived  to 
catch  the  early  train  just  as  it  was  grunting  out  of  the 
station. 

Having  missed  his  breakfast  he  had  been  too  savage 
to  accept  on  the  journey  such  substitutes  as  the  dry 
buns  and  doubtful  milk  which  were  offered  to  him  at 
two  of  the  stations  at  which  the  train  stopped.  He 
was,  therefore,  ill-fortified  for  a  four-mile  walk. 
Moreover,  he  had  a  little  touch  of  fever  which  spring 
had  relit  in  him.  He  met  no  carriage  on  the  road,  and 
arrived  at  Moonbank  hot  and  dusty,  very  tired,  and  in 
thorough  ill-humour. 

As  he  passed  in  at  the  gates  and  plunged  into  the 
cool  of  a  drive  which  curved,  sheltered  from  the  sun, 
at  the  foot  of  a  slope  he  came  across  Alma  sitting  on 
a  bank,  her  face  turned  in  his  direction,  her  eyes  alight 


232  The  Whips  of  Time 

with  expectancy.  She  rose  smiling  and  went  to  meet 
him,  moving  with  a  characteristic  elasticity  and  light- 
ness as  of  a  creature  sustained  by  hopes  and  aspirations. 

He  felt  that  with  her  came  a  wave  of  repose  and  of 
refreshment  which,  reaching  him  before  she  herself 
could,  laid  his  peevish  humour.  By  the  time  she  had 
slipped  her  warm  friendly  hand  into  his  and  had  taken 
him  into  her  sweet,  candid  eyes,  his  fever  and  anger 
began  to  drop  from  him  as  a  slough. 

"  I  knew  you  would  come,"  she  said.  "  I  am  so 
glad.  The  day  is  so  delightful." 

"  It  was  a  bit  of  a  trudge,"  he  grumbled,  manlike, 
demanding  sympathy.  "  It's  as  hot  as  June." 

"  If  only  you  had  sent  a  wire  a  carriage  should  have 
met  you.  You  look  quite  fagged." 

"  I  sent  a  wire." 

"  It  did  not  arrive." 

"  Some  mistake  of  that  ass  Boulger.  He's  always 
making  mistakes.  But  if  you  got  no  wire  why  did  you 
expect  me  ?  " 

A  little  colour  flowed  into  her  cheeks.  Lowood  had 
long  ceased  to  regard  her  from  the  physician's  stand- 
point. The  wan  looks  and  fervid  brain  absorptions 
which  had  caused  him  to  prophesy  dyspepsia  and  a  red- 
tipped  nose  had  vanished  with  the  more  tranquil  habit 
of  mind  and  body  she  had  assumed  since  Burghwallis' 
return.  His  coming  had  restored  her  mental  balance 
by  giving  a  personal  and  emotional  bias  to  her  rela- 
tions with  everyday  life.  Man  and  woman  are  two 
incompletions  which,  until  they  find  their  counterpart, 
are  ill-poised  and  prone  to  aberrations. 

Mrs.  Beaumont  no  longer  complained  of  Alma's  lack 
of  interest  in  clothes.  She  had  developed  a  wholesome 
interest  in  her  hats  and  frocks  and  in  her  general 
appearance.  Mrs.  Beaumont,  reading  these  symptoms 
by  the  light  of  her  worldly  knowledge,  would  have 
found  incredible  the  truth  that  there  was  no  design 
in  this,  but  that  it  was  a  purely  instinctive  and  sponta- 


Playing  with  Fire  233 

neous  readjustment  of  her  previously  ill-balanced 
forces.  All  at  once  things  which  had  seemed  not  to 
matter  became  things  of  importance. 

To  his  question  as  to  how  she  had  known  that  he 
was  coming  she  replied: 

"  I  always  know  when  you  are  coming.  It  must  be 
a  sort  of  wireless  telegraphy." 

Normal  man  is  averse  to  phenomena  out  of  the  range 
of  everyday  experience.  They  disturb  his  preconceived 
notions  of  things.  Being  by  nature  conventional  he 
dislikes  to  have  the  ideas  which  he  has  neatly  arranged 
in  pigeon-holes  disturbed  by  notions  for  which  he  has 
no  pigeon-holes. 

"  You  only  guess  that  I  am  coming,"  he  said.  "  It 
is  nothing  more  than  that." 

"  Oh,  but  it  is.  I  know  as  well  as  though  I  had 
received  a  telegram.  Suddenly,  when  I  am  not  think- 
ing about  you,  I  receive  an  impression,  '  He  is  com- 
ing.' ' 

"  But  I  am  not  the  only  *  he '  in  the  world." 

"  It  means  you  always." 

They  walked  on  in  silence.  He  breathed  in  the  air 
and  the  sunshine  and  the  magnetic  glamour  of  her. 
At  every  step  his  spirits  rose.  Hunger  became  the 
pleasing  prelude  to  that  good  meal  of  which  every  man 
who  visited  Mrs.  Beaumont  felt  assured. 

"  I  hope  you  find  the  impression  that  '  He  is  com- 
ing '  a  pleasing  one,"  he  said,  smiling. 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  No.  Although  I  am  glad,  of  course,  that  you  are 
coming,  the  impression  is  attended  by  a  sort  of  fear, 
a  little  panic,  for  which  there  seems  to  be  no  reason. 
It  is  as  though  you  were  going  to  do  me  some  injury." 

After  a  pause : 

''  What  injury  am  I  likely  to  do  you  ?  " 

"None,  of  course,"  she  said.  "Why  should  you? 
And  I  cannot  believe  you  would  injure  anybody.  You 
are  too  kind." 


234  The  Whips  of  Time 

"  I  am  very  much  like  other  persons." 

Another  pause.    Then : 

"  It  would  express  it  more  accurately  if  I  said  that 
this  panic  I  get  about  you  is  less  a  feeling  that  you  are 
going  to  injure  me  than  that  you  have  in  some  way 
actually  injured  me,  long  and  long  ago." 

Her  intonation  justified  his  ironical  comment. 

"  Centuries  ?  " 

She  turned  up  a  wondering  face. 

"  That  is  the  strange  thing  about  it.  It  does  seem 
to  have  been  centuries.  I  seem  to  look  back  into  an 
immense  distance  as  though  I  were  looking  through 
the  wrong  end  of  a  telescope,  and  right  at  the  end 
of  it,  hazy  and  small,  is  some  horrid,  cruel  thing 
that  I  cannot  define,  but  of  which  I  am  strangely 
afraid." 

"  You  should  not  give  way  to  morbid  fancies,"  he 
told  her  rather  irritably.  "  Because  of  course  it  is 
nothing  but  a  morbid  fancy.  You  read  and  think  too 
much.  Why  don't  you  ride  and  play  tennis  and  do 
other  normal  things  ?  " 

She  laughed. 

"  You  forget  I  am  so  much  alone.  One  cannot  play 
tennis  single-handed." 

He  admitted  that  this  was  true. 

"  And  in  '  my  study  of  imagination '  are  so  many 
many  things  that  are  not  to  be  found  on  the  roads. 
For  instance,  you  are  always  to  be  found  there." 

"  But  it  appears  I  am  a  sort  of  bugbear  lurking 
behind  the  door  to  hurt  you." 

She  did  not  speak. 

"If  you  only  dive  deep  enough  into  your  memory," 
he  resumed,  "  you  will  find  a  perfectly  rational  explana- 
tion. When  you  were  a  child,  perhaps  I  stole  your 
chocolates  or  cracked  the  skull  of  your  pet  doll,  and  you 
brooded  over  it  and  magnified  it  till  the  sense  of  injury 
got  fixed  in  your  mind,  even  although  you  have  for- 
gotten the  cause  of  it," 


Playing  with  Fire  235 

"  I  don't  think  it  is  that,"  she  said.  "  Shall  I  tell 
you  what  I  really  think  about  it  ?  " 

"  Do." 

"  I  think  it  was  something  that  happened,  some 
wrong  you  did  me,  in  a  previous  life.  We  have  talked 
of  previous  lives.  You  never  quite  admit  that  you 
believe  in  them,  although  I  cannot  see  how  else  so  many 
things  can  be  explained.  In  our  countless  existences 
it  is  likely  that  affinity  brings  us  into  relation  again  and 
again  with  the  same  persons.  I  am  convinced  that  I 
knew  you  in  a  former  life,  and  that  this  thing,  whatso- 
ever it  was,  happened  to  you  and  to  me  in  that." 

He  kicked  at  a  stone  in  his  path. 

"  Upon  my  word,"  he  said,  "  it's  too  bad  to  charge 
me  with  crimes  I  committed  centuries  ago.  I  find  the 
crimes  I've  been  guilty  of  within  my  own  recollection 
quite  bad  enough  to  answer  for." 

She  laughed. 

"  I  don't  charge  you.  It  isn't  of  the  slightest  con- 
sequence. It  has  all  passed  and  we  have  begun  afresh. 
Even  if  you  did  injure  me  I  have  quite  forgiven  you. 
I  am  glad  we  are  such  old  acquaintance.  I  am  sure  it 
was  centuries  ago,  for  I  get  momentary  flashes  of  a 
mediaeval  castle,  of  pageants,  of  men  in  armour.  I  try 
to  fix  them,  to  see  them  more  clearly,  and  to  find  myself 
and  you  in  them.  But  they  go  as  they  come,  like  a  flash 
of  lightning.  And  there  is  always  that  sense  of  fear, 
that  sense  of  some  alarming  thing." 

"  Well,  I  suppose  I  have  expiated  my  crime  against 
you,"  he  said  cheerfully,  "  since  you  say  you  have  got 
over  your  hatred  of  me." 

She  turned  her  haunting,  and  at  the  moment  it 
seemed  to  him  her  haunted,  eyes  on  him.  His  own  met 
and  dwelled  in  them.  He  was  conscious  of  a  strange 
sensation.  His  brain  reeled.  He  felt  himself  caught 
back  —  back  with  a  rush  —  somewhere  —  nowhere. 
With  an  effort  he  recovered  himself.  He  heard  her 
saying  quietly : 


236  The  Whips  of  Time 

"  —  did  not  hate  you.  I  think  I  liked  you  a  great 
deal  or  you  could  not  have  hurt  me  so  much." 

They  had  come  now  to  the  marble  steps  before  the 
house.  Mrs.  Beaumont,  standing  beautiful  and  smiling 
at  the  top,  transformed  them  into  the  pedestal  of  a 
classic. 

"  Alma  said  you  would  come,"  she  greeted  him.  "  I 
suppose  you  wrote  to  her.  I  have  ordered  a  specially 
good  luncheon." 


CHAPTER    XXVII 

STILL    PLAYING 

SHE  had  not  unduly  raised  his  expectations.  He  de- 
cided that  Mrs.  Beaumont's  luncheon  was  something 
worth  having  missed  a  breakfast  for.  When  it  was 
over  he  said  to  Alma : 

"  It's  too  fine  a  day  to  waste  indoors.  Let  us  go  out 
and  kill  nothing." 

"  Do,"  Mrs.  Beaumont  said,  "  only  don't  ask  me  to 
go  with  you.  I  wouldn't  miss  my  afternoon  siesta  for 
the  world.  It  is  the  real  beauty  sleep,  if  women  only 
knew  it." 

"  If  they  only  knew  you  they  couldn't  doubt  it," 
Burghwallis  said  gallantly. 

"  I  tell  Alma,"  she  said,  with  a  gratified  laugh,  "  that 
she'll  be  an  old  hag  by  the  time  she  is  thirty  if  she 
doesn't  take  more  care  of  her  looks.  Nowadays  women 
rag  themselves  out  till  they're  nothing  but  scarecrows. 
Looks  need  as  much  taking  care  of  —  I  don't  mean 
face-washes  and  things  —  as  lace  and  pearls  do." 

"  And  they  are  far  more  precious  things,"  Burgh- 
wallis said. 

"  So  they  are,"  Mrs.  Beaumont  agreed  seriously. 
"  And  I  tell  her  if  she  isn't  careful  she'll  get  thin.  And 
no  man  remains  in  love  with  a  thin  woman  for  longer 
than  three  months." 

Alma  put  up  her  hands  to  her  shell-like  ears. 

"  Oh,  horrible  materialism !  "  she  cried.  "  As  though 
love  were  a  question  of  ounces.  Love  is  a  thing  of  the 
soul." 


238  The  Whips  of  Time 

Mrs.  Beaumont  knew  little  about  souls,  and  she  knew 
her  limitations.  She  did  not,  therefore,  pursue  the 
subject. 

"  Thin  women  don't  ever  hold  men,"  she  said. 
"  They  haven't  got  any  of  what  I  heard  somebody  once 
call  '  magnetism.' ' 

She  departed  smiling  to  her  siesta  and  to  preserve 
that  pearl  beyond  price  —  her  beauty. 

Burghwallis  turned  to  Alma. 

"  Don't  be  a  scarecrow,"  he  said.  "  Let  us  go  out 
and  harvest  our  handsomeness  by  sitting  in  the  sun- 
shine." 

"  And  tanning  our  complexions,"  she  retorted  gaily. 

To  one  side  of  the  house  was  an  artificial  lake,  fed 
by  a  small  waterfall  which  dropped  like  a  rope  of  spun 
glass  from  a  cleft  in  the  mountain.  In  the  middle  of 
the  lake,  surrounded  by  water-lilies  now  beginning  to 
spread  their  cool,  green  tables  as  though  for  aquatic 
feasts,  a  little  pagoda  of  white  marble  had  been  built. 
To  reach  it  it  was  necessary  to  embark  in  a  light  barge 
which,  luxuriously  upholstered,  was  moored  in  a  marble 
boat-house. 

"  Come,"  he  said,  "  let  us  brave  the  dangers  of  this 
broad  expanse  of  ocean  and  trust  our  lives  upon  that 
marble  continent  I  see  before  me." 

"  Isn't  it  absurd !  "  she  assented,  laughing. 

She  stepped  into  the  barge. 

"  The  man  who  designed  this  garden  must  have  had 
a  child's  mind.  It  is  full  of  such  foolish  little  wonders, 
winding  paths  that  lead  back  to  where  they  started 
from,  little  amusing  plots  and  tricks  and  surprises. 
And  yet  although  one  sees  that  they  are  childish  they 
succeed  in  amusing  and  make  one  feel  gay  and  delight- 
fully foolish." 

"  It  is  good  to  feel  gay  and  delightfully  foolish,"  he 
said.  "Why  gloom?" 

The  interior  of  the  pagoda  was  a  shimmering  nest 
of  cushioned  satin.  When  they  had  disembarked 


Still  Playing  239 

Burghwallis,  for  a  freak,  gave  the  barge  a  push  and 
sent  it  swirling  across  the  lake. 

"  Oh,  what  have  you  done ! "  she  scolded  him. 
"  You  have  burned  our  boats  behind  us.  How  shall 
we  manage  to  get  back  to  the  mainland  when  the  sav- 
age tribes  come  down  upon  us  ?  " 

"  If  it  comes  to1  that,"  he  said  boastfully,  "  I'll  just 
pick  you  up  in  my  arms  and  carry  you  across." 

He  allowed  himself  a  minute  of  masterful  ardour, 
induced  perhaps  by  the  slight  muscular  effort  he  had 
made  in  rowing.  She  had  seated  herself  upon  the 
curving  cushioned  seat  of  the  pagoda.  He  stood  in 
his  masterful  mood,  lean  and  shapely,  towering  above 
her.  Her  eyes  drew  to  his  and  met  them  full.  The 
blood  rushed  to  her  face  in  a  sudden  new  self-conscious- 
ness. Never  again  would  they  meet  upon  the  plane  of 
uncle  and  niece. 

"  You  would  drop  me  in  mid-ocean,"  she  said 
hurriedly. 

"  Do  you  challenge  me  ?  " 

There  was  dangerous  mischief  in  his  eyes. 

"  No,"  she  said  in  a  little  panic,  "  of  course  not. 
Somebody  will  come  and  push  the  barge  back  to  us." 

He  suppressed  his  dangerous  mood  and  moved  to  the 
other  end  of  the  settle. 

"  If  I  sit  here,"  he  said  tonelessly,  "  the  smoke  won't 
blow  into  your  eyes." 

His  business  with  his  cigar  relieved  an  ensuing 
silence  of  some  awkwardness.  The  pagoda  had  win- 
dows all  round.  She  gazed  out  through  the  window 
at  her  end  of  the  settle  and  he  through  the  window  at 
his  end.  Then  he  broke  out  energetically: 

"  'Pon  my  word,  what  a  day!    Isn't  it?  " 

"  Perfect." 

"  Like  June." 

"  Yes." 

"  The  lake  is  as  blue  as  the  sky." 

"  Bluer." 


240  The  Whips  of  Time 

Another  silence,  during  which  they  stared  through 
their  respective  windows.  Then  he  broke  out  again : 

"  This  is  a  precious  sight  better  than  Piccadilly. 
Jove!  how  stuffy  it  must  be  in  town  to-day." 

"  Frightful !    I  am  so  glad  you  thought  of  coming." 

"  So  am  I.  'Pon  my  soul,  this  uninhabitable  island 
is  a  success." 

"  It  is  simply  beautiful." 

I  hear  the  unintelligent  reader  scoff.  "  These  two 
are  represented  as  being  a  clever  man  and  a  clever 
woman,  yet  two  persons  from  an  idiot  asylum  might 
talk  more  cleverly."  But  I  do  not  write  for  unintelli- 
gence.  The  intelligent  reader  knows  that  clever  men 
and  women  are  far  too  clever  to  talk  cleverly  to  the 
person  with  whom  they  are  in  love.  They  keep  their 
wit  and  smartness  for  any  stray  person  with  whom 
they  may  go  in  to  dinner.  With  the  person  beloved 
they  keep  silence,  or  talk  foolishness,  and  all  the  while, 
their  souls  in  their  ears,  they  listen  breathlessly  lest 
they  should  lose  any  one  of  the  amazing  things  their 
hearts  are  saying  to  one  another. 

He  glanced  at  the  delicate  profile  in  which  an  eye 
like  a  lambent  mystery,  made  more  mysterious  by  its 
fine  thicket  of  lashes,  looked  dreamily  forth  upon  the 
lake. 

"  Are  you  enjoying  it  ?  " 

"  Loving  it." 

"  You  come  here  every  fine  day?  " 

"  No." 

"  Often  ?  " 

She  shook  her  head. 

"How  often?" 

She  laughed  outright. 

"  The  truth  is  I  haven't  been  here  since  we  came 
last." 

"Odd!  if  you  like  it." 

"  It  is  lonely  to  be  on  an  island  by  oneself." 

"  I  feel  it  rather  nice." 


Still  Playing  241 

"  But  I  am  here." 

"  Yes,"  he  said  reposefully,  "  you  are  here." 

He  puffed  at  his  cigar. 

"  So  you  do  sometimes  want  something  more  than 
your  own  and  old  Logwood's  society  ?  " 

She  laughed  again  from  sheer  light-heartedness. 
How  absurd  to  call  Lowood  "  Logwood  "  ! 

"  Sometimes." 

"Not  often?" 

"  Oftener  than  is  good  for  me." 

He  puffed  again  in  peace.  The  pagoda  was  filled 
with  an  unclassic  atmosphere. 

"  No  doubt  you'd  like  a  string  of  silly  young  asses 
dangling  round  you,"  he  submitted  savagely. 

"  It  doesn't  sound  amusing." 

"  It  always  amuses  girls  of  your  age." 

She  turned  a  smiling,  happy  face. 

"  Why  conjure  unattainable  delights?  " 

"  There  is  no  Act  of  Parliament  to  keep  you  from 
havin'  a  string  of  silly  young  asses  danglin'  round  you 
if  you  want  to,"  he  said ;  "  if  you  do  want  to." 

"  But  I  don't.    Old  Logwood  is  enough." 

"  One  old  ass  as  good  as  six  young  uns !     Eh  ?  " 

"  It  isn't  at  all  an  apt  description  of  him.  He  is  not 
old,  and  he  is  far  from  being  an  ass." 

"  If  you  don't  look  out  you'll  be  fallin'  in  love  with 
him,  just  because  you  never  see  another  man  from  one 
year's  end  to  another." 

"  I  see  you." 

Her  eyes  glanced  a  laughing  challenge  at  him.  He 
discovered  that  he  had  been  edging  nearer  to  her.  He 
slid  back  to  the  other  extreme  end  of  the  settle.  A 
surreptitious  glance  showed  him  a  rose  blooming  out 
on  her  cheek.  Her  dark  lashes  lay  over  it  in  a  tremu- 
lous poise. 

He  flushed.  He  fidgeted.  Man  of  the  world  though 
he  was,  his  defences  went  down,  leaving  him,  as  he 
felt  it,  a  fool  of  a  youngster,  for  the  first  time  charged 


242  The  Whips  of  Time 

with  hot  and  foolish  exquisite  impulses.  To  hold  her 
cool  palm  and  slender  fingers  thrown  carelessly  upon  a 
cushion  as  though  they  had  been  things  of  little  value. 
To  take  them,  to  kiss  them.  To  trace  with  a  finger  the 
velvet  outline  of  her  cheek.  To  press  his  face  to  it,  his 
lips  to  it.  To  set  a  hand  upon  her  shadowy  hair.  To 
put  his  lips  to  it.  To  — 

He  got  to  his  feet,  he  had  found  himself  once 
more  edging  toward  her.  He  plucked  out  the  cigar 
from  his  mouth,  that  cigar  of  fine  aroma,  and  gaining 
the  door  of  the  pagoda  in  two  strides  he  flung  it  out 
into  the  middle  of  the  lake.  It  dropped,  emitted  a 
little  resentful  hiss  at  the  chilliness  of  its  demise,  and 
sought  an  untimely  grave. 

"  Well,  of  all  the  abominable  impositions  I  have 
smoked !  "  he  said,  and  ceased,  a  regretful  eye  upon 
the  little  circling  crease  which  marked  its  watery 
end. 

The  abrupt  action  and  exclamation  startled  her  out 
of  her  dream.  Her  eye,  too,  sought  the  dimpling 
water. 

"  Was  it  ?  "  she  said.    "  And  it  smelt  so  nice." 

He  stood  with  his  back  to  her,  his  straight-built 
back  in  its  well-built  coat.  Her  eyes  dropped  from  it 
shyly.  A  glow  seemed  to  radiate  from  him,  a  thrill  to 
vibrate  from  him,  a  glow  which  was  not  light  nor  heat, 
a  thrill  which  was  not  contact,  a  thrill  and  glow  which 
wrapped  her  in  warm,  ineffable  caresses. 

"  To  get  that  boat !  "  he  said,  breaking  briskly  in 
upon  her  emotions,  "  that  is  the  problem.  -If  I  shout 
will  anybody  come  ?  " 

"  Oh,  are  we  going  yet?  "  she  said  wistfully. 

"  Going !  "  he  repeated.  "  We  can't  stop  here  all 
day."  He  curled  a  hand  about  his  mouth.  "  Boat!  " 
he  shouted.  "Hello!  Hel-lo-o-o!  Boat  ahoy!" 

Half  a  dozen  forms  came  hurrying  to  the  edge  of 
the  water.  When  he  had  given  his  instructions  and  a 
sturdy  fellow  was  wading  his  quickest  to  the  drifting 


Still  Playing  243 

craft  he  half  turned  and  cried  dramatically,  at  the  same 
time  avoiding  her  eyes  : 

"  Saved !  Saved !  And  I  shall  not  be  forced  to  make 
a  cannibal  meal  of  you !  " 

She  did  not  know  him  in  this  mood.  She  was  half 
offended. 

"  How  foolish  you  are,"  she  rebuked  him. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  a  thundering  fool." 

She  could  not  understand  his  sudden  irritability. 
She  cast  about  in  her  mind  for  some  cause  she  had 
herself  unwittingly  supplied.  In  silence  he  punted  her 
across  the  lake.  As  they  landed  a  stable  clock  struck 
four. 

"  By  Jove!  "  he  exclaimed.  He  took  out  his  watch. 
"  So  it  is,  and  I  must  catch  the  five  o'clock  train  back 
to  town." 

Her  heart  dropped  into  her  shoes.  It  was  as  though 
somebody  had  said,  "  Prepare  to  lose  a  limb !  "  Their 
day  had  been  so  dear,  so  intimate.  All  her  incomple- 
tions  had  found  completion.  Never  before  had  she 
guessed  what  he  was  to  her. 

"  But  will  you  not  dine?  "  she  said.  "  We  always 
dine  early,  so  that  you  may  return  by  the  nine  o'clock 
train." 

"  But  I  must  dine  in  town.  Ton  my  soul  I  must." 
He  hurried  on  before  her.  "  I  will  go  on  to  order  a 
carriage.  Who  would  have  thought  it  was  so  late  ?  " 

She  was  on  the  brink  of  tears.  In  the  happy  under- 
current of  her  mind  there  had  been  a  sense  of  exultant 
security.  She  had  been  flattering  herself  that  there 
remained  to  her  yet  four  hours,  each  containing  sixty 
golden  minutes  (  for  the  first  time  she  understood  why 
minutes  had  been  designated  golden).  Joy  does  not 
always  pass  quickly.  This  day  had  not.  Each  minute 
of  it  since  he  had  come  had  felt  like  a  golden  bead 
beneath  her  fingers,  burnished,  round  and  perfect,  ere 
she  had  slipped  it  upon  a  strand  of  charming  memories. 
And  what  if  it  passed?  Was  there  not  a  lifetime  of 


244  The  Whips  of  Time 

strands  and  strands  of  such  golden,  perfect  beads  to  be 
further  told  between  them?  And  now  suddenly  the 
rosary  was  snatched  from  her  hand.  He  was  to  leave 
four  hours  before  his  time.  And  it  might  be  three 
weeks  before  she  would  again  see  him.  Oh !  tragedy 
of  niecely  affection !  Three  whole  weeks  without  see- 
ing him! 

She  dried  the  first  tear  of  a  threatened  shower,  and 
with  a  sudden  self-reproach  flew  to  the  house  to  order 
tea  for  him  before  his  journey. 

Mrs.  Beaumont  did  not  live  by  rule.  The  warm 
afternoon  resulted  in  a  prolonging  of  her  siesta.  Tea 
was  not  served  at  Moonbank  until  five.  Alma  found 
the  large  drawing-room  deserted.  Her  eyes  went  to 
the  little  onyx  Empire  clock  upon  the  mantelpiece.  It 
was  only  ten  minutes  past  four.  The  carriage  would 
not  be  round  until  half-past.  There  was  still  a  brief 
record  of  golden  blisses  to  be  told. 

Shorter,  however,  than  she  had  thought,  tea  was 
brought.  Moonbank,  which  gave  an  impression  of 
having  been  transported  from  the  skies  at  the  rubbing 
of  a  genie's  lamp,  was  served  as  though  by  magicians. 
The  tall,  velvet-footed  servants  might,  for  their  smooth 
celerity,  have  been  electric  motors. 

"  You  need  not  wait,"  Alma  told  them.  They  van- 
ished like  shadows  before  light.  But  the  onyx  clock 
had  chimed  the  quarter,  and  its  jewelled  hand  was 
travelling  on  before  Burghwallis  came. 

He  had  beaten  a  precipitate  retreat  in  order  to  reflect 
for  five  minutes  alone  upon  the  situation.  His  reflec- 
tion did  not  apparently  show  the  situation  to  him  as 
less  disquieting  than  he  had  all  of  a  sudden  suspected 
it  to  be.  He  was  sufficiently  experienced  to  recognise 
his  symptoms.  It  was  a  fever  from  which  he  had 
suffered  before.  But  experience  told  him  that  this  was 
a  different  and  a  vastly  more  aggravated  form  than  any 
previous  attack.  The  few  minutes  he  had  stolen  from 
Alma's  rosary  of  happy  minutes  had  not  sufficed  to 


Still  Playing  245 

furnish  him  with  decisions.  They  had  only  shown  him 
that  the  utmost  self-discipline  was  necessary  lest  she 
should  detect  his  symptoms,  lest  his  fever  should  move 
him  to  babble  deliriously.  He  summed  it  all  up  as 
a  pretty  kettle  of  fish,  and  had  no  other  thought  but 
to  get  out  of  the  house  before  the  kettle  should 
boil  over. 

"Tea?"  he  said  lightly.  Again  he  consulted  his 
watch.  "  Scarcely  time,  is  there?  " 

"  Plenty." 

He  avoided  her  eyes  as  he  approached  her  for  his 
cup. 

"  Mrs.  Beaumont  still  warding  off  the  ravages  of 
time?  You  must  say  my  good-byes." 

He  carried  his  cup  back  to  the  mantelpiece  and  stood 
there  drinking  it,  his  eyes  upon  the  clock. 

"  By  the  way,"  he  said,  "  I'm  afraid  I  shan't  be  down 
again  for  some  time.  I'm  just  choked  up  with  boring 
functions  and  things." 

"  If  they  bore  you  why  do  you  go  to  them?  " 

"  How  can  one  escape  ?  And  what  else  is  there  to 
do?" 

"  Thousands  of  things.  You  have  the  whole  world 
before  you.  You  have  rank  and  money."  She 
laughed.  "  By  the  way,  I  suppose  you  have  money?  " 

"  Some,"  he  said  vaguely. 

"  Well,  then,  you  have  rank  and  some  money,  and 
time  and  energy  and  brains  and  tastes.  You  can  make 
precisely  what  you  like  of  your  life." 

"  Theories!  "  he  said.  "  My  life,  my  opinions,  my 
habits,  my  obligations  were  made  for  me  centuries 
before  I  was  born.  No  persons  are  so  bound  and 
cramped  and  fettered  as  are  the  persons  of  my  set. 
The  things  I  do,  the  houses  I  visit,  the  persons  to  whom 
I  must  be  civil  were  preordained  without  regard  to  my 
individual  tastes.  The  wheels  and  levers  of  my  exist- 
ence compel  me  to  do  things  almost  as  inevitably  as 
the  wheels  and  levers  of  this  clock  drive  its  hands  round 


246  The  Whips  of  Time 

and  round  its  face  from  night  till  morning  and  again 
from  morning  till  night." 

She  saw  the  fallacy  of  his  comparison. 

"  But  a  man  is  not  a  machine." 

"  That  is  just  what  he  is.  He  is  part  of  a  big  com- 
plicated mass  of  machinery  which  must  move  with 
regard  to  its  other  component  parts.  In  proof  of 
which,"  he  added,  "  you  will  see  me,  the  moment  the 
clock  chimes  —  that  is  in  three  minutes  precisely  — 
start  off  as  though  I  were  a  portion  of  its  mechanism, 
and  make  for  the  station.  Although,  if  the  truth  must 
be  told,"  his  eyes  dwelt  upon  her  as  she  presided  charm- 
ingly over  the  tea-table,  "  I  have  no  particular  desire 
to  catch  the  train  or  to  do  anything  but  what  I  am  now 
doing." 

She  lifted  her  head. 

"  Then  don't  go,"  she  said.  "  Do  what  you  choose 
to  do.  Prove  yourself  a  man  instead  of  a  machine." 

He  laughed  enigmatically. 

"  It  is  far  more  prudent  to  be  a  machine.  There, 
now,"  as  the  clock  chimed,  "  my  lever  has  come  into 
action  and  I  must  go." 

It  was  a  lever  which  started  also  other  portions  of 
the  social  mechanism.  The  door  opened.  A  footman 
entered. 

"  The  carriage,  my  lord,"  he  announced,  and  with- 
drew. 

Burghwallis  set  down  his  cup  and  moved  to  her.  In 
a  moment  she  was  trembling  all  over.  The  blood  ebbed 
from  her  face.  Her  haunted,  haunting  eyes  lifted  to 
him  with  a  profound  wistfulness.  Her  lips  unclosed 
slightly  upon  her  quickened  breath. 

He  had  not  the  habit  of  denying  himself.  His  im- 
pulses had  been  tempered  by  fastidious  choice  rather 
than  by  ascetic  principles.  Drawn  by  her  eyes  and  by 
the  honey  of  her  parted  lips  he  stooped  and  kissed  them. 
It  was  a  half-smiling,  affectionate  kiss,  A  rather  fond 
uncle  might  have  bestowed  it.  But  hunger  comes  with 


Still  Playing  247 

eating.  He  would  have  been  more  than  man,  who, 
finding  such  amazing  sweetness,  had  not  sought  it 
again.  And  again.  And  again.  Until  intoxicated  by 
the  pure  and  subtle  magic  of  her  the  very  tumult  it 
excited  in  him  forced  him  to  desist. 

"  Good-bye !  "  he  muttered.  "  Good-bye !  "  and  was 
gone. 

Going,  he  felt  himself  to  be  a  flame  now  rather  than 
a  man.  He  derided  the  calm  confidence  with  which  he 
had  some  minutes  earlier  described  himself  as  a  ma- 
chine. With  a  sense  of  relief  he  returned  into  the  grip 
of  convictions  which  were  a  safeguard  —  the  defer- 
ential servants,  the  reserved  demeanour,  the  refuge  of 
the  opened  carriage  door  through  which  he  plunged, 
the  rapid  going  of  the  Duke's  horses,  bearing  him  from 
her  against  his  will,  against  the  vehement  setting  of  his 
blood  to  her. 

For  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  knew  love  in  its 
fulness.  Looking  back  he  saw  that  all  he  had  previ- 
ously taken  for  the  sacred  fire  were  but  will-o'-the- 
wisps,  flickerings  —  mere  exhalations  from  the  marshes 
of  his  nature.  Now  the  whole  man,  body,  mind  and 
soul,  was  afire,  one  broad  sheet  of  flame  in  which  all 
boundary  lines  were  lost. 

"  Gather  ye  Roses,"  says  the  poet.  And  men  go  out 
and  gather  Cabbages!  Burghwallis'  tastes  had  been 
too  fine  to  allow  him  to  be  satisfied  with  cabbages.  But 
the  roses  he  had  gathered  he  now  saw  had  been  artificial 
ones,  made  of  rose-coloured  silk,  it  is  true,  and  excellent 
imitations.  But  beside  this  rose  he  had  now  gathered, 
dewy,  and  fresh,  and  fragrant  —  the  rose  of  true  love 
—  the  others  showed  fit  only  for  the  dust  heap.  And 
yet  this  rose  of  love,  this  jewel  of  life  which  he  now 
held  in  his  hand,  was  a  forbidden  thing. 

It  no  more  occurred  to  him  that  he  could  marry 
Mrs.  Beaumont's  niece  than  it  would  have  occurred  to 
him  to  throw  himself  beneath  the  wheels  of  the  engine 


248  The  Whips  of  Time 

which  was  bearing  him  away  from  her.  Such  a  thing 
was  out  of  the  question.  Only  irresponsible  youngsters 
dragged  fine  old  names  in  the  dust  by  marrying  ballet- 
dancers  and  their  kind.  Full-grown  men,  with  decent 
self-respect  and  respect  for  their  families,  could  no 
more  do  these  things  than  they  could  forge.  It  was 
a  matter  upon  which  he  had  always  held  very  strong 
views.  It  seemed  to  him  as  much  a  sine  qua  non  that 
a  man's  wife  should  be  of  his  own  set  as  it  appears 
incumbent  upon  a  middle-class  man  that  he  shall  not 
marry  his  cook.  And  Mrs.  Beaumont's  niece  was  out 
of  the  question. 

Wherefore  his  conscience  writhed,  a  pale  martyr  in 
the  flame  of  his  desire.  For  —  he  had  known  Alma 
since  she  had  been  a  child.  He  remembered  the  cling  of 
her  hot  little  trustful  hand  in  his.  And  he  was  too 
kindly  and  too  scrupulous  of  heart  to  be  the  first  to  set 
any  woman  upon  that  descent  which  his  worldly  expe- 
rience had  shown  him  was  all  too  easy.  Least  of  all 
Alma  —  Alma  with  her  haunting  eyes  which  cradled 
so  many  fine  and  foolish  illusions,  her  quick  and  pure 
imagination,  her  belief  and  her  trust  in  him. 

Men  of  the  world  who  think,  separate  women  into 
two  classes,  not  good  and  bad  women,  that  classification 
is  too  crude,  but  wives  and  —  the  other  things.  Some 
of  them  avowedly  prefer  "  the  other  things."  But  in 
their  minds  these  are  placed  "  below  the  line,"  a  black 
dividing  line  which  men  draw  even  more  cruelly  than 
do  women.  This  line  is  drawn  in  superior  men  by  a 
fine  fastidiousness  which  is  Nature's  morality,  in  lesser 
men  by  a  mere  commercial  distinction  between  the 
things  which  are  cheap  and  the  things  which  are  beyond 
price. 

Burgh wallis'  conscience  shrank  from  the  thought  of 
Alma  "  below  the  line."  He  remembered  the  child's 
trustful  hand  in  his.  He  wrote  to  tell  her  a  few  days 
later  that  he  was  going  abroad  again.  He  feared  that 
he  would  be  too  busy  to  run  down  to  say  good-bye. 


Still  Playing  249 

He  wished  her  well  with  her  astronomy  and  archaeology 
and  other  dry-as-dust  studies,  although  he  thought  it 
would  be  far  better  for  her  if  she  were  to  spend  more 
time  in  walking  and  riding  and  in  playing  tennis.  He 
remained  her  affectionate  "  Uncle  Tony." 

So  he  left  her,  with  a  sudden  icy  terror  in  her  heart, 
on  her  lips  the  fiery  memory  of  his  kisses.  Yet  though 
he  left  her  he  took  fiery  memories  also,  magnet  memo- 
ries, which  would  draw  him  back  to  her  as  inevitably 
as  the  needle  seeks  the  pole. 


CHAPTER    XXVIII 

HUMMERSTONE    COMES    BACK 

LOWOOD  found  his  pupil  once  more  over-eager  in  her 
studies.  But  where  before  her  over-eagerness  had  been 
the  outcome  of  an  intense  nature  seeking  distraction 
from  loneliness,  now  he  detected  in  it  a  strong  and 
distressing  need  for  distraction  from  some  hidden 
trouble.  He  guessed  that  Burghwallis  was  its  source. 
Having  seen  the  change  his  return  had  made  in  her, 
having  seen  the  preoccupied  student  bloom  into  a 
woman  with  joy-lit  eyes,  and  cheeks  which  grew  roses 
at  a  sound,  he  could  not  doubt  the  cause  of  her 
reversion. 

In  his  sympathetic  way  of  interesting  himself  in 
other  persons'  stories  he  wondered  what  had  happened. 
Had  the  man  spoken  ?  Before  he  had  ridden  away  had 
he  wounded  the  delicate  pride  he  would  doubtless 
regard  as  a  superfluous  virtue  in  the  niece  of  Mrs. 
Beaumont  ?  Men  do  not  expect  fine  conduct  from  one 
another.  It  is  for  this  reason  that  men  are  not  ele- 
vating company  for  one  another.  And  it  was  for  this 
reason  that  Lowood  did  not  now  credit  Burghwallis 
with  the  compunctions  and  self -repression  which  had 
indeed  spurred  him  away.  He  concluded  that  either  he 
had  ridden  away,  as  men  do  (and  seldom  do  for  any 
other  reason),  because  he  was  indifferent,  or  that  not 
being  indifferent  he  had  spoken  in  such  terms  as  only 
Alma's  pride  had  answered. 

Then  his  attention  was  distracted  by  events  occur- 
ring nearer  home,  events  which  that  act  of  Hummer- 
stone's  twenty-three  years  earlier  had  set  in  train. 


Hummerstone  Comes  Back  251 

It  was  three  weeks  since  Cyril  Hummerstone  had 
cast  off  the  dust  of  Scrope-Denton  from  his  large  feet, 
had  turned  back  his  unpleasing  countenance  in  the 
direction  of  home  and  of  work.  Since  his  departure 
Lowood  had  by  contrast  found  his  solitude  at  Homer 
Cottage  so  delightful  that  he  congratulated  himself 
upon  having  suffered  the  tyranny  of  an  odious  presence 
because  it  had  enabled  him  to  enjoy  more  fully  the 
relief  of  its  withdrawal. 

In  the  meantime  all  had  gone  well  with  the  persons 
of  his  living  drama.  Hestroyde  and  Joan  were  model 
lovers,  employing  the  greater  portion  of  the  time  they 
spent  together  —  and  this  was  by  far  the  greater 
portion  of  their  waking  time  —  in  falling  in  and  out 
of  quarrels,  a  pastime  which  vastly  pleased  one  of 
them,  and  of  which  the  other  doubtless  enjoyed  the 
making-up.  Legh  was  still  gloomy  and  sorry  for 
himself.  But  Lowood  saw  that  he  was  becoming  more 
and  more  reconciled  to  the  inevitable,  and  more  able 
to  accept  Joan  as  his  friend  and  as  his  friend's  wife. 

The  fears  Lowood  had  once  held  for  the  smooth 
running  in  harness  of  these  two  had  been  laid.  Under 
the  influence  of  what  he  could  not  doubt  was  her  sincere 
attachment  to  Hestroyde,  Joan  was  growing  more  and 
more  womanly  and  gentle.  And  although  it  seemed 
that  she  could  not  wholly  suppress,  she  had  very  much 
tempered  her  natural  proneness  to  make  pretty  and 
unlawful  eyes  at  every  man  she  met.  Of  this  no  doubt 
motherhood  would  cure  her,  Lowood  thought.  Thus 
the  drama  he  had  feared  might  be  a  tragedy  was  work- 
ing out  smoothly.  Save  that  of  course  it  was  all 
wrong  for  Sarah  Munnings'  son  to  be  the  hero  of  the 
piece,  and  that  he  should  wrongfully  have  usurped 
a  considerable  estate  and  the  heritage  of  a  long  line, 
and  should  now  carry  off  the  heiress  and  prize  of  the 
neighbourhood. 

All  this  offended  Lowood's  sense  of  justice  and  pre- 
vented him  from  personally  liking  the  young  impostor. 


252  The  Whips  of  Time 

Moreover,  he  could  not  forgive  him  for  defrauding 
Legh  of  the  heiress  and  prize  of  the  neighbourhood. 
For,  much  as  she  cared  for  him,  Lowood  was  unable 
to  believe  that  had  she  known  the  truth  she  would 
still  have  taken  Sarah  Munnings'  son  for  husband. 

As  for  the  real  Hestroyde,  he  reflected,  Heaven  help 
him!  If  he  had  survived,  he  had  doubtless  become  one 
of  that  submerged  tenth  to  which  Hummerstone's  act 
had  consigned  him.  Many  years  earlier  he  had  made 
efforts  to  trace  him.  All  he  had  been  able  to  learn  had 
been  that  the  murderess  had  died  in  prison  shortly  after 
his  birth,  and  that  the  child  had  been  handed  over  to 
her  relatives. 

Now,  he  decided,  to  complete  the  drama  and  to 
satisfy  the  dues  of  justice  the  true  Hestroyde  should 
turn  up,  a  model  youth  who,  having  triumphed  over 
untoward  circumstances,  and  having  by  some  means 
discovered  his  true  origin,  should  establish  himself  as 
heir  to  Mowbreck,  should  carry  off  Joan  and  live 
happily  ever  after,  leaving  Hestroyde  to  revert  to  his 
normal  place  amid  the  submerged. 

It  was  now  ten  days  before  the  wedding,  however, 
and  there  appeared  no  sign  of  any  of  these  fine  happen- 
ings. Scrope-Denton  was  in  a  ferment.  Flags  for  the 
decoration  of  windows  were  to  be  bought  in  every 
shop.  It  not  being  anticipated  that  Nature  would  per- 
form a  miracle  for  an  occasion  even  so  auspicious  as 
was  this  and  put  forth  roses  in  April,  art,  in  the  shape 
of  the  village  school  children,  was  engaged  in  fashion- 
ing rather  clumsy  substitutes  from  sheaves  of  pink  and 
of  white  tissue  paper.  These  were  intended  to  festoon 
the  air  above  the  heads  of  bride  and  bridegroom  from 
the  lych-gate  to  the  porch  of  the  church.  Real  flowers 
were  to  be  strewn  beneath  their  feet  by  little  girls  with 
baskets.  All  the  servants  on  the  Kesteven  and  the 
Hestroyde  and  the  Legh  estates  had  been  promised  a 
whole  day's  holiday,  and  in  the  evening  a  supper,  of 
which  even  to  think  made  men  and  women  hungry. 


Hummerstone  Comes  Back  253 

The  women  were  never  tired  of  talking  over  Joan's 
trousseau.  Much  of  it  had  been  ordered  in  Paris,  and 
"  Fancy  that !  "  in  awestruck  tones,  attended  by  tongue 
clickings  to  express  feelings  for  which  words  were 
inadequate,  paid  tribute  to  the  detailed  descriptions  of 
persons  who  were  privileged  to  know.  Joan's  maid  in 
these  days  was  a  personage.  Women  and  girls  eyed 
her  with  respect,  for  she  had  seen  and  had  even  touched 
the  Parisian  marvels.  But  she  was  just  then  too  high 
and  exalted  a  person  to  condescend  to  particulars.  As 
well  expect  to  wring  from  a  Prime  Minister  details  of 
Royal  confidences. 

The  honeymoon  was  to  be  spent  in  Italy,  at  that 
season  a  Hosanna  of  flowers,  which,  like  a  spring 
eruption  from  a  flower  crater,  covered  the  mountains 
and  valleys  with  a  lava  of  pure  colour  and  fine 
fragrance. 

Then,  like  an  evil  genius  into  the  midst  of  all  this 
joyful  flutter,  Cyril  Hummerstone  blundered  back  to 
Scrope-Denton.  Lowood  had  had  no  word  of  his 
coming.  As  he  sat  one  afternoon  engaged  in  letter- 
writing  there  were  sounds  in  the  hall  outside  of  an 
arrival.  The  door  opened  and  Hummerstone  came  in. 

Squaw  Polly  of  the  vulgar  tastes  gave  a  shrill  whoop 
of  delight  and  fixed  an  ecstatic  bead-eye  upon  his  large 
and  well-remembered  person.  As  her  master  had 
promised,  the  bad  penny  had  again  turned  up. 

From  the  moment  in  which  their  eyes  met  Lowood 
divined  that  there  was  mischief  in  him.  Behind  a  mask 
of  fawning  sleekness,  with  which  he  cringed  for 
further  hospitality,  his  eyes  gleamed  assurance,  tri- 
umph, spite.  There  was  in  his  face  that  look  of 
repellent  cruelty  one  sees  sometimes  in  the  face  of  a 
boy  who  has  caught  some  creature,  has  been  bitten  by 
it,  and  is  about  to  kill  it  painfully. 

Lowood,  giving  him  a  tepid  welcome,  felt  a  sense  of 
apprehension.  The  cad  had  gone  away  crestfallen, 


254  The  Whips  of  Time 

repulsed,  beaten.  He  had  come  back  confident,  inso- 
lent, with  a  light  of  triumph  in  his  small,  pale  eyes. 
Why  had  he  come  back  so  soon  ?  Why  had  he  come 
back  at  all?  In  a  moment  he  made  up  his  mind  that 
he  would  not  a  second  time  be  responsible  for  his  pres- 
ence in  Scrope-Denton.  He  determined  to  refuse  him 
the  shelter  he  was  aware  he  would  ask. 

"  Well,  Hummerstone,"  he  said,  "  I  thought  you 
were  buried  in  your  books.  You  went  away  with  good 
resolutions." 

"  I've  thought  better  of  them,"  Hummerstone 
replied.  "  At  least,  I've  thought  of  better  ones." 

"  You  need  not,"  Lowood  told  him  drily.  "  You 
cannot  improve  on  your  decision  to  settle  down  to  work 
and  to  make  a  career  for  yourself." 

"  Too  much  grind,"  Hummerstone  said.  "  I'm  not 
built  that  way.  I  suppose  you'll  be  kind  enough  to 
put  me  up  for  a  few  days  ?  " 

"  I'm  sorry  to  say  '  No/  but  I  cannot." 

This  was  a  blow.  Hummerstone  drew  in  his  breath. 
He  threw  an  inquiring  glance  beneath  his  heavy  lids. 

"  Full  up?  "  he  asked.    "  Some  other  visitor?  " 

"  No,"  Lowood  said.  He  did  not  like  to  do  this 
thing,  but  the  possible  consequence  of  doing  anything 
else  was  still  less  to  his  taste.  "  I'll  tell  you  the  truth. 
Your  last  visit  here  wasn't  a  success.  I  was  glad  you 
picked  up  and  hoped  the  air  and  rest  had  sent  you 
back  to/work.  But  for  some  reason  or  another  you 
were  not  persona  grata  with  my  friends.  I  cannot  ask 
you  to  stop." 

"  I  don't  ask  you  to  take  me  to  see  them,"  the  young 
man  disclaimed  eagerly.  "  I  only  want  a  day  or 
two." 

By  his  eagerness  Lowood  was  again  horribly  re- 
minded of  the  cruel  boy  with  the  creature  he  was  about 
to  kill  painfully,  the  creature  which  had  bitten  him.  A 
day  or  two  might  be  quite  sufficient  for  him  to  do  no 
end  of  mischief,  seeing  the  frame  of  mind  in  which  he 


Hummerstone  Comes  Back  255 

was  and  the  nature  of  the  elements  with  which  he  had 
to  deal. 

"  I  have  said  it,"  he  told  him.  "  I  regret  that  I 
cannot  have  you." 

For  a  half  minute  his  intending  guest  was  non- 
plussed. He  had  regarded  Lowood's  hospitality  as  a 
foregone  conclusion.  He  slipped  a  surreptitious  hand 
into  a  trouser  pocket.  Lowood  heard  the  meagre  chink 
of  coin,  saw  a  mean  look  come  into  his  mean  eyes. 
Then  he  said  carelessly: 

"  Then  I  shall  have  to  put  up  somewhere  else. 
There's  an  inn,  I  remember.  No  doubt  they'll  do  me 
well  enough  there." 

His  resolve  to  remain,  showing  some  determined 
purpose,  deepened  Lowood's  sense  of  apprehension. 

"  Take  my  advice  and  go  home,"  he  said.  "  I'll  put 
you  up  for  the  night  if  you'll  go  back  in  the  morning." 

Hummerstone  hesitated.  Perhaps,  after  all,  he 
might  save  his  hotel  costs.  Then  he  shook  his  head. 

"  No.  I  may  want  longer.  But,  I  say,  I  won't  bear 
malice.  If  you'll  give  me  a  dinner  I'll  eat  it.  And 
I'll  put  up  at  the  Spotted  Pig,  or  whatever  they  call 
their  hole  of  an  inn." 

"  They  call  it  The  Grand  Hotel,"  Lowood  said  drily. 
"  And  I  daresay  they'll  give  you  a  very  decent  substi- 
tute for  dinner  there." 

"  So  you  won't  give  me  a  dinner  even.  I'm  sure  I 
don't  know  what  I've  done.  I  suppose  you've  heard 
something  from  Hestroyde."  He  turned  away  his 
mean,  cruel  eyes.  Lowood  imagined  that  poor  crea- 
ture having  its  neck  wrung  slowly.  "  Well,  you'll  hear 
more  of  me  before  I've  finished  with  him.  Ta-ta! 
wicked  Godpa !  I'm  sorry  you're  so  cross." 

He  went  out.  Lowood  heard  him  arranging  with 
Vox  to  send  down  his  baggage  to  the  hotel. 

"  Now  the  Fates  forbid,"  he  reflected,  and  kept 
reflecting  all  the  evening,  "  that  Hummerstone  has 
discovered  the  truth  from  his  father  and  is  going  to 


256  The  Whips  of  Time 

carry  the  Sarah  Mannings  tale  to  Hestroyde  —  or 
to  Joan." 

He  slept  little  that  night.  A  sense  of  impending 
trouble  lay  beside  him  and  with  an  irritating  elbow 
poked  him  back  to  unquiet  consciousness  the  moment  he 
dozed  off.  He  could  not  believe  that  the  elder  Hum- 
merstone  would  have  betrayed  the  truth.  He  had 
known  him  cold  and  heartless,  but  in  all  things  save 
those  which  his  zeal  called  science  a  strictly  honourable 
man.  The  secret  was  also  safeguarded  by  the  fact  that 
its  revelation  would  gravely  discredit  Hummerstone 
himself,  might  even  indeed  render  him  liable  to  legal 
penalties.  He  decided  that  it  was  more  probable 
the  young  man's  business  had  nothing  to  do  with  the 
changed  infants.  Such  a  secret  in  such  hands  was 
a  notion  too  disquieting  to  entertain. 

Nevertheless,  his  breakfast  was  spoilt  by  a  question 
which  faced  him  from  the  other  end  of  the  table.  How 
had  Hummerstone  spent  the  previous  evening?  How 
the  night?  He  almost  regretted  that  he  had  not  kept 
him  at  the  cottage  in  order  that  he  might  have  checked, 
or  at  all  events  might  have  kept  himself  informed  of 
his  movements. 

Immediately  after  breakfast  he  went  out.  He 
turned  instinctively  in  the  direction  of  Mowbreck. 
Little  as  he  liked  Hestroyde  he  realised  that  the  young 
man  was  blameless  in  his  imposture,  and  that  in  his 
usurpation  of  Mowbreck  and  in  his  appropriation  of 
Joan  he  had  acted  merely  as  other  men  do  when  they 
take  without  question  all  of  life  which  comes  to  their 
hand.  Certainly  he  had  not  deserved  a  fate  so  cruel  as 
that  this  revelation  should  be  made  to  him  just  as  the 
cup  of  his  success  and  happiness  was  at  his  lips. 

He  met  Hestroyde  in  the  drive.  Even  as  he  entered 
the  gates  he  saw  the  young  man's  tall  form  detach  itself 
from  the  glooming  shadow  of  the  house  and  come 
swinging  down  the  straight  approach.  In  his  buoyancy 
of  movement  he  seemed  to  be  skimming  the  air. 


Hummerstone  Comes  Back  257 

Lowood,  with  that  injured  sense  which  comes  of  having 
missed  the  best  thing  in  life,  guessed  that  the  lover  was 
skimming  the  air  on  his  way  to  his  lady.  As  they 
neared  he  saw  a  shade  of  disappointment  set  upon  the 
lover's  eager  face. 

"  You  were  coming  to  see  me,"  he  said.  "  I  will 
turn  back  with  you." 

"  No,"  Lowood  insisted.  "  Certainly  not.  It  is  a 
fine  morning.  I  will  turn  back  with  you  and  walk 
wherever  you  are  going.  It  is  as  good  a 'method  as 
any  other  of  seeing  a  friend.  And  the  walk  from  here 
to  The  Folly  is  a  charming  one." 

Hestroyde  dropped  his  lids. 

"  How  did  you  know  —  "  he  began  sheepishly,  and 
ended  in  a  hearty  laugh.  "  Well,  it's  no  good  denying 
it.  That  is  where  I  was  going." 

As  they  went  Lowood,  still  with  that  sense  of 
grudging  against  Fate,  noted  his  keen  face,  the  light 
in  his  eyes,  his  answers  to  questions  which  had  not 
been  asked  of  him,  all  the  symptoms  of  that  rarest  of 
conditions,  a  mind  preoccupied  by  happiness.  It  was 
plain  that  Hummerstone's  impending  machinations  had 
not  yet  been  carried  out,  or  that,  if  so,  they  had  not 
yet  reached  this  happy  lover. 

As  they  neared  Joan's  house  it  appeared  that  other 
persons  were  early  abroad  that  morning.  A  large 
young  man  came  out  by  the  lodge  gate  and  lounged 
toward  them  down  the  road.  It  was  Hummerstone. 
When  he  saw  them  he  turned  red  and  pale,  and  seemed 
at  first  to  hesitate  as  to  what  he  should  do.  Then,  with 
a  sudden  hardihood  crisping  his  sloppy  embarrassment, 
he  raised  his  hat  and  nodded  carelessly  to  Lowood, 
ignoring  Hestroyde.  But  Lowood  saw  him  shoot  a 
covert  glance  in  the  younger  man's  direction,  and  com- 
pleting his  comparison  of  the  previous  day,  found  in 
his  eyes  the  cruel  triumph  of  the  boy  who  has  put  out 
the  life  of  the  creature  which  had  bitten  him. 

So  soon  as  he  had  passed : 


258  The  Whips  of  Time 

"  What  the  deuce !  "  Hestroyde-  broke  out,  "  has 
that — ?"  He  seemed  to  remember  that  Hummer- 
stone  was  Lowood's  friend.  He  reconstructed  his 
sentence. 

"  So  your  friend  Hummerstone  is  with  you  again?  " 
he  said,  now  with  a  slight  sneer  on  "  friend."  He 
glanced  up  at  the  house  with  an  angry  expression,  as 
though  challenging  the  right  of  any  person  in  it  to  be 
visited  by  Hummerstone. 

"  No,"  Lowood  said.  "  He  is  not  with  me.  He  is 
stopping,  I  believe,  at  the  hotel." 

Hestroyde  made  no  comment.  He  seemed  to  be 
turning  the  circumstance  over  in  his  mind. 

Lowood  left  him  at  the  lodge  gate.  He  turned  back 
and  walked  slowly  in  order  that  he  might  not  overtake 
Hummerstone,  always  a  lounger.  Presently  Hestroyde 
came  hurrying  after  him.  His  face  was  set  and  Lo- 
wood heard  him  breathing  hard. 

"  Miss  Joan  out  ?  "  he  questioned  sympathetically. 

"  Turner  said  so,"  Hestroyde  answered  with  a  curt 
laugh.  "  A  lie,  of  course !  She  herself  arranged  for 
me  to  come  at  half-past  ten  to  drive  with  her." 

"  She  has  been  called  out,  no  doubt,"  Lowood  said. 
It  occurred  to  him  that  she  had  gone  perhaps  to  Moon- 
bank. 

Hestroyde  made  no  answer.  He  appeared  to  be 
thinking  profoundly.  Suddenly  he  broke  out : 

"  What  is  Hummerstone  doing  here  ?  Why  did 
Joan  see  him  ?  "  Then,  without  waiting  for  answers : 
"  There's  some  damned  mischief  up,"  he  blurted  sav- 
agely. "  I'll  tell  you  what  happened.  When  Turner 
said  she  was  out  I  thought  he  was  making  a  mistake. 
It  wasn't  likely  that  after  asking  me  to  drive  with  her 
she  would  go  out.  I  said,  '  Oh,  that's  rubbish,  I'll  find 
her  in  the  drawing-room,'  and  pushed  past  him.  When 
I  got  in  the  first  thing  I  saw  was  a  man's  glove  lying 
on  a  table  —  somehow  I  knew  it  was  Hummerstone's,. 
Then  I  heard  a  sound  of  violent  crying,  sobbing  and 


Hummerstone  Comes  Back  259 

moaning  horrible  to  hear,  in  the  little  alcove  at  the  end. 
It  was  Joan.  Do  you  think  I  shouldn't  know  her 
voice  in  a  thousand  although  I  had  never  heard  her 
cry?" 

He  broke  off  to  draw  his  handkerchief  over  his 
distressed  face. 

"  There  was  something  about  it  that  told  me  not  to 
go  in  to  her.  I  stood  where  I  was  and  called  '  Joan  1 
Joan ! '  In  an  instant  she  was  quiet.  I  called  again. 
Then  I  heard  a  step  and  the  further  door  of  the  alcove 
closed.  After  a  minute  Turner  came  again  and  told 
me  he  had  searched  the  house  but  that  Miss  Kesteven 
was  out.  What  has  Hummerstone  told  her  ?  How  the 
deuce  can  anything  he  has  told  her  make  her  cry  like 
that?  Joan  isn't  given  to  crying." 

Lowood,  at  a  loss  what  to  say,  had  an  inspiration. 

"  Did  anything  take  place  between  you  and  Hum- 
merstone before  he  went  away  last  time  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Yes,"  Hestroyde  said.  "  I  thrashed  him  for  kiss- 
ing her  against  her  will." 

"  Then  he  has  told  her." 

"  Pooh !  "  Hestroyde  said.  "  She  herself  asked  me 
to  do  it." 

Lowood  had  been  merely  fencing  against  a  convic- 
tion which,  from  the  moment  he  had  seen  Hummer- 
stone's  look  of  baleful  triumph,  had  forced  itself  upon 
him  —  a  conviction  that  Hummerstone  had  discovered 
and  had  betrayed  the  secret.  Now  he  was  sure  of  it. 
Only  something  of  the  gravest  importance  would, 
under  the  circumstances,  have  induced  Joan  to  see  him. 
Only  some  revelation  about  Mark  would  account  for 
her  vehement  weeping  and  for  her  sudden  avoidance 
of  him.  For  any  other  trouble  she  would  surely  have 
gone  to  him  for  comfort. 

"  If  you  take  my  advice,"  he  told  the  young  man 
sympathetically,  "  you  will  keep  away  from  her  to-day. 
To-morrow,  whatsoever  is  troubling  her  may  show  in  a 
different  light." 


260  The  Whips  of  Time 

He  smiled  when  the  lover,  for  answer,  consulted  his 
watch. 

"  Why,  it  isn't  eleven,"  he  said  blankly. 

That  evening  after  dinner  Legh  came  in.  He  came 
in  with  reluctance.  His  eyes  went  before  him  search- 
ing the  room.  His  reluctance  passed. 

"  I  say,"  he  said  soon,  "  so  you've  got  Hummerstone 
with  you  again." 

When  Lowood  had  explained : 

"  What  the  deuce  is  he  here  for?  And  after  what 
happened,  what  the  deuce  does  Joan  mean  by  going 
about  with  him?  This  afternoon  when  I  was  driving 
past  I  saw  her  with  him  down  by  Carnage's  Pond. 
They  were  talking  with  their  heads  together,  and  Joan 
seemed  to  be  crying  and  begging  him  to  do  something 
or  not  to  do  something.  When  they  saw  me  they 
slipped  behind  a  shed.  What  rotten  thing  is  up? 
Hestroyde  would  be  furious  if  he  heard  of  it.  When 
Hummerstone  was  here  last  Mark  thrashed  him  for 
kissing  her  against  her  will.  And  now  she  hobnobs 
with  him  as  though  he  were  her  greatest  friend." 

The  sad  drawback  to  being  a  general  sympathiser 
with  the  world  is  that  when  the  world  is  in  trouble 
its  woes  become  the  general  sympathiser's,  and  when 
it  is  in  joy  it  goes  off  and  enjoys  itself  without  even 
troubling  to  whisper  a  blissful  word  to  its  poor 
sympathiser. 

The  face  of  poor  Lowood,  under  stress  of  these  dis- 
quieting confidences,  became  presently  as  long  as  a 
fiddle.  Of  what  use  to  fly  the  ills  of  life  upon  one's 
own  account,  only  to  have  one's  meals  and  sleep  spoilt 
by  the  woes  of  others  who  had  sought  them?  Again 
and  again  he  told  himself  that  he  had  been  a  fool  to 
follow  up  the  elder  Hummerstone's  fateful  sowing  and 
to  reap  the  whirlwind  of  it.  Or,  having  followed  it  up, 
why  had  he  allowed  his  fool  of  a  soft  heart  to  care  a 
rap  what  might  happen  to  Sarah  Munnings'  offspring 
and  the  persons  associated  with  him  ? 


Hummerstone  Comes  Back  261 

The  thing  pursued  him  on  all  sides.  Even  to  Moon- 
bank.  Two  days  later,  when  he  sought  refuge  there 
from  his  anxieties,  increased  by  the  news  he  had  had 
that  Joan  still  absolutely  refused  to  see  Hestroyde, 
Alma  inquired: 

"  What  is  wrong  with  Joan  ?  She  came  in  last  night 
looking  pale  and  ill.  She  talked  quite  wildly  and 
begged  us  several  times  whatsoever  might  happen  still 
to  believe  in  her  and  to  remain  her  friends.  What  does 
she  expect  to  happen?  Her  marriage  with  Mr. 
Hestroyde  is  to  be  next  week." 

Lowood  suggested  that  she  was  perhaps  nervous  at 
the  step  she  was  about  to  take,  or  unhappy  at  the 
thought  of  leaving  her  old  home  and  her  mother. 

"  It  may  be  that,  of  course,"  Alma  admitted.  "  But 
it  isn't  like  Joan  to  be  nervous  and  unhappy  about 
trifles." 

Then  the  cloud  burst. 

Three  mornings  before  the  day  fixed  for  the  wed- 
ding, Vox,  bringing  in  his  master's  tea,  observed 
blandly : 

"  I  suppose  you've  heard  the  news,  sir." 

"  Do  you  mean  yesterday's  news,  Vox,  or  this 
morning's?  As  I  am  only  just  awake  and  have  no 
wireless  receiver  at  my  bedside  I  have  had  no  means  of 
hearing  this  morning's  news." 

Vox  laughed  smoothly. 

"  You  will  have  your  joke,  sir,"  he  said.  "  I  sup- 
pose, as  it  only  happened  the  first  thing  this  morning, 
you  can't  have  heard  that  Miss  Kesteven  went  off  at 
daybreak  in  a  motor-car  with  Mr.  Hummerstone  to 
be  married  in  London,  and  that  Lady  Kesteven  isn't 
expected  to  recover  from  the  shock,  and  that  everybody 
says  Mr.  Hestroyde  will  shoot  himself  or  Mr.  Hum- 
merstone before  the  day  is  out.  You  will  take  your 
bath  as  usual  at  half-past  eight,  sir,  I  presume?" 

"  Then  you're  an  ass,"  Lowood  said,  springing  out 


262  The  Whips  of  Time 

of  bed.  "  I'll  take  it  now.  Now,  I  tell  you,  Vox,  if 
ever  you  were  quick !  " 

"  Certainly,  sir,"  Vox  assented. 

The  elopement  of  Joan  Kesteven  with  Cyril  Hum- 
merstone  on  the  eve  of  her  marriage  with  Hestroyde 
was  a  nine  days'  wonder  in  the  county,  and  was  even 
recorded  in  some  London  journals  as  "  A  Startling 
Event  in  County  Society."  Also  it  was  utilised  in 
a  well-known  motor  paper  as  a  means  of  advertising 
the  particular  brand  of  car  which  supplied  the  motor- 
power  employed  for  the  event.  As  so  recounted  the 
truants  headed  for  London  at  a  sustained  speed  of 
sixty  miles  an  hour,  and  the  gallant  and  daring  latter- 
day  Lochinvar,  who  carried  off  his  heiress-bride  from 
the  very  arms  of  her  prospective  bridegroom,  was 
recorded  as  having  stepped  out  of  the  car  and  into  the 
registrar's  office,  in  which  he  was  united  to  his  happy, 
blushing  bride,  as  fresh  as  a  lark  and*'  without  having 
turned  a  hair. 

Vox's  facts  were  true,  although  his  surmises  and 
those  of  the  county  proved  false.  Lady  Kesteven 
recovered,  her  indignation  against  her  errant  daughter 
serving  as  a  spur  to  her  shocked  energies.  And  Hes- 
troyde shot  neither  himself  nor  his  rival. 

Lowood  saw  him  a  few  days  after  the  event,  the  day 
indeed  fixed  for  his  wedding.  His  face  was  the  face  of 
a  hard  old  man,  lined,  set,  and  as  one  cut  out  of  stone. 
His  eyes  too  looked  as  though  made  of  stone  or  of 
water  frozen  to  its  depths.  Lowood  was  appalled  at 
the  change  in  him,  at  his  silence,  at  his  rigidity. 

His  physician's  experience  told  him  that  some  day, 
perhaps  ten  years  later,  the  shock  and  suffering  the 
young  man  was  so  vehemently  repressing  now  would 
show  their  handiwork,  would  in  some  mental  or  phys- 
ical wreckage  reveal  the  ravage  done  by  this  hidden 
cataclysm  of  the  emotions.  And  in  proportion  as  he 
now  permitted  it  no  outlet  would  it  be  found  to  have 
worked  havoc. 


CHAPTER    XXIX 

AFTER    THE    HONEYMOON 

To  the  day  of  his  death  Lowood  never  heard  the 
opinions  of  his  neighbours  upon  Joan  Kesteven's 
escapade.  For  Hummerstone  being  his  friend,  and  he 
having  been  responsible  for  his  introduction  to  Scrope- 
Denton,  men,  and  even  women,  forbore  to  speak 
plainly  before  him. 

The  little  animated  groups  he  found  in  drawing- 
rooms,  with  their  heads  together  and  with  their  tongues 
going  more  or  less  all  at  the  same  time,  fell  silent  at  his 
approach.  But  he  knew  from  these  sudden  silences, 
and  from  certain  significant  glances  directed  toward 
himself,  that  the  groups  were  discussing  his  godson 
and  his  godson's  bride.  Also  he  had  to  endure  for 
some  weeks  a  degree  of  coldness  in  the  demeanour  of 
his  neighbours,  the  expression  of  their  disapproval  of 
him  for  having  introduced  the  person  who  had  made 
havoc  of  the  traditions  and  decorum  of  local  society. 

One  or  two  dowagers  of  hardy  middle-age  openly 
took  him  to  task. 

"  We  always  thought  you  such  a  nice  man,  Dr. 
Lowood,"  Mrs.  Tempest  told  him,  "  till  we  knew  your 
godson.  Why  did  you  not  do  your  duty,  as  the  prayer- 
book  says  you  should,  and  bring  up  the  young  man  in 
the  way  he  should  go?  As  for  Joan  Kesteven,  she 
deserves  to  be  publicly  whipped.  Lady  Kesteven  will 
never  again  be  the  same  woman.  And  she  has  always 
been  so  delicate,  poor  thing,  as  it  was." 

Lowood  disclaimed  all  responsibility  with  regard  to 
Hummerstone. 


264  The  Whips  of  Time 

"  I  had  not  seen  him,"  he  insisted,  "  for  ten  years. 
I  liked  him  no  better  than  my  neighbours  did.  At  all 
events  he  didn't  elope  from  Homer  Cottage.  I  refused 
to  take  him  in." 

"  Oh,  well,  you  should  have  brought  him  up  better," 
the  lady  insisted,  shaking  her  obstinate  head  at  him. 

Lowood  cared  not  a  rush  for  the  censure  of  his 
neighbours.  On  the  contrary,  as  injustice  always  does, 
it  made  him  think  better  of  himself  than  he  had  been 
disposed  to  do,  for  he  knew  himself  wholly  blameless  in 
those  particulars  for  which  they  blamed  him.  He  knew 
that  if  to  blame  he  was  to  be  blamed,  not  for  Hummer- 
stone's  lack  of  up-bringing,  but  for  having  himself 
come  to  Scrope-Denton.  That  step  of  his  it  was  which 
had  drawn  upon  his  friends  there  the  evil  consequences 
of  Hummerstone's  act.  For  that  Joan's  elopement  was 
one  of  those  consequences  he  could  not  doubt. 

He  was  convinced  that  Cyril  had  gone  to  her  that 
morning  with  the  story  of  Hestroyde's  true  parentage. 
Whether  her  action  in  marrying  Hummerstone  had 
been  due  to  offended  pride  or  to  self-sacrificing  devo- 
tion to  her  lover  he  could  not  decide. 

She  might,  in  a  fit  of  piqued  anger  at  finding  herself 
on  the  brink  of  marrying  the  murderess'  son,  have 
considered  an  elopement  with  Hummerstone  the  readi- 
est way  at  the  same  time  of  breaking  with  Hestroyde 
and  of  putting  it  out  of  his  power  to  persuade  her  to 
make  so  degrading  a  union.  Or  it  might  have  been 
that  love  for  him  and  her  wish  to  save  him  from  bitter- 
est humiliation  had  moved  her  to  sacrifice  herself  on 
Hummerstone's  terms. 

"  All  I  can  think  is,"  Legh  told  Lowood  the  evening 
of  the  elopement,  "  that  she  has  suddenly  gone  staring 
mad.  Nothing  else  explains  it.  She  was  devoted  to 
Mark.  She  disliked  Hummerstone,  as  her  insisting 
upon  Mark  thrashing  him  for  kissing  her  shows. 
Something  or  other  must  have  driven  her  clean  out  of 
her  mind.  That's  all  I  can  say  about  it." 


After  the  Honeymoon  265 

"  What  does  Hestroyde  think  ?  Did  she  write  or 
make  any  explanation  ?  " 

"  I  believe  not  a  word.  But  he  won't  speak  of  her. 
I  went  up  to  Mowbreck  at  once.  I  was  afraid  he'd  put 
a  bullet  through  himself.  He  seemed  like  a  dead  man, 
all  the  life  struck  out  of  him.  The  moment  I  went  in 
he  looked  me  straight  in  the  eyes  and  said,  '  Look  here, 
Bob.  If  you  are  my  friend  you'll  never  again  mention 
her  name  to  me.'  He'd  been  going  through  it  by  him- 
self. He  looked  frightful.  I  told  him  she  must  have 
gone  stark,  staring  mad,  but  he  only  said,  as  though 
nothing  had  happened,  that  he  was  pleased  to  hear  from 
Simmonds  —  that's  his  bailiff  —  that  there  would  be  a 
good  hay  crop.  He's  one  of  those  deep  down  chaps, 
I've  never  been  able  quite  to  understand  him.  I  hope 
to  Heaven  those  two  won't  come  back  here  to  live.  If 
Mark  were  to  see  her  with  him  I'm  sure  there  would  be 
bloodshed." 

But  as  he  said  he  did  not  quite  understand  Hestroyde. 

A  month  later  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Cyril  Hummerstone  re- 
turned to  Scrope-Denton  and  took  up  their  abode  at 
The  Folly.  And  there  was  no  bloodshed.  Lowood  met 
Hestroyde  out  riding  a  few  days  after  their  return. 
His  face  was  still  hard  and  pale,  his  eyes  still  frozen- 
looking.  He  gave  the  impression  of  a  man  putting  an 
iron  control  upon  himself.  But  he  replied  pleasantly 
to  Lowood's  greeting.  He  told  him  that  he  was  on  his 
way  to  a  horse  fair  and  hoped  to  make  one  or  two 
good  bargains. 

"  When  he  takes  off  that  strenuous  grip  from  him- 
self, what  will  happen  ? "  Lowood  asked  himself. 
"  Will  he  run  amuck  in  rage  and  passion,  or  will  he 
have  a  bad  physical  breakdown  ?  " 

The  county  at  first  decided  that  it  would  not  call. 
Mrs.  Hummerstone  had  transgressed  beyond  all 
bounds.  To  ostracise  her  would  be  merely  to  express 
a  proper  sense  of  the  decencies.  But  Joan  had  no 


266  The  Whips  of  Time 

inkling  of  this.  Heiress  and  spoilt  pet  of  the  neigh- 
bourhood as  she  had  been  all  her  life,  it  did  not  occur 
to  her  that  in  this  as  in  other  things  she  would  not  be 
allowed  to  fly  in  its  face  without  reckoning. 

Accordingly,  at  the  Riccalby  Tulip  Show,  a  popular 
function  which  took  place  a  few  days  after  her  return, 
she  turned  up,  a  shade  pale  perhaps,  but  smiling  and 
defiant,  and  greeted  all  her  friends  as  though  nothing 
out  of  the  common  had  happened. 

Her  assurance  staggered  them.  Their  own  curiosity 
to  probe  the  mystery  weakened  them.  They  had 
known  her  since  she  had  been  a  child,  and  moreover, 
The  Folly  had  always  been  the  most  hospitable  and 
lavish  house  for  miles  about.  Before  they  knew  what 
they  were  doing  they  found  themselves  snaking  hands 
with  her  and  asking  when  they  would  find  her  at 
home. 

Lowood,  who  was  present,  scanned  her  face  eagerly 
for  a  clue  to  the  emotions  through  which  she  had 
passed.  Was  she  happy  or  unhappy?  Experienced 
psychologist  as  he  was  she  baffled  him.  It  may  have 
been  that  she  was  on  her  guard,  was  wearing  a  mask 
against  the  curiosity  of  her  neighbours.  Beyond  the 
fact  that  she  was  pale  and  slightly  thinner,  she  was 
her  old  audacious  self.  Some  of  this  Lowood  attrib- 
uted to  insensitiveness.  One  more  highly  strung  could 
not,  after  an  adventure  so  discreditable,  thus  have  met 
her  friends. 

She  was  alone.  Had  Hummerstone  been  with  her 
the  probability  is  that  the  county  would  have  adhered 
to  its  half- formulated  resolution  and  would  have  cut 
the  pair  of  them. 

Lowood,  keenly  interested  and  not  a  little  trepid 
upon  the  situation,  was  among  the  first  to  call  upon  her. 
Three  other  visitors  were  there.  Their  presence  gave 
him  an  opportunity  of  studying  the  bride  with  more 
attention  than  he  could  have  done  had  he  found  her 
alone.  Hummerstone  was  again  absent.  It  appeared 


After  the  Honeymoon  267 

that,  despite  his  assurance,  he  was  loth  to  meet  his 
neighbours. 

She  was  dressed  more  elaborately  than  had  been  her 
wont.  Lowood  surmised  quizzically  that  her  handsome 
tea-gown  of  pearl-grey  silk  and  chiffon,  with  a  rose- 
coloured  sash  falling  Empire  fashion  to  the  hem  of  her 
train  from  a  large  paste  buckle  at  the  back,  had  been 
part  of  the  trousseau  designed  for  her  marriage  with 
Hestroyde.  Her  fair  hair  was  dressed  with  elaborate 
care.  He  could  not  decide  whether  this  greater  atten- 
tion to  her  toilette  was  a  mere  playing  out  of  her  role 
of  bride,  or  whether  it  was  meant  to  hide  a  change 
which  he  now  saw  had  taken  place  in  her. 

Whether  temporarily  or  not  he  could  not  judge,  but 
for  the  occasion  all  her  old  charm  was  gone,  her  buoy- 
ancy, her  spirits,  her  high  poise.  In  their  place  were  a 
languor  and  an  abstraction  which  made  another  person 
of  her.  She  attempted  to  conceal  these  by  a  gaiety 
which  was  obviously  forced.  It  showed  her  still  less 
like  Joan  than  like  some  stranger  who  was  impersonat- 
ing Joan  as  he  had  previously  known  her.  Her  vivac- 
ity, her  alluring  movements,  the  coquettish  flashings  of 
her  green  eyes,  even  her  vivid  complexion,  had  all 
suffered.  It  was  as  though  a  leaden  film  had  settled 
over  her. 

Yet  her  pose  deceived  all  save  Lowood. 

"  The  bad  girl  is  just  her  old  lively  naughty  self," 
Mrs.  Eustace  de  Lisle,  a  person  of  consequence  in  the 
county,  told  Lowood  in  an  aside.  "  But  where  in  the 
world  is  the  man  ?  I  am  dying  to  see  this  Romeo  who 
in  a  few  weeks  could  cut  out  so  handsome  a  person  as 
Hestroyde." 

"  I  assure  you  he  is  no  Romeo,"  Lowood  said 
bluntly.  "  He  is  most  ordinary." 

Mrs.  de  Lisle  shook  her  head.  She  put  up  her 
lorgnettes  and  glanced  about  the  room  for  him. 

"  That  is  from  a  man's  standpoint,"  she  insisted. 
"  Some  of  these  men  who  seem  to  other  men  to  be  quite 


268  The  Whips  of  Time 

ordinary  are  irresistible  to  our  sex.  And  Joan  was 
really  very  fond  of  Mark.  And  so  he  seemed  to  be 
of  her.  But  he  evidently  cared  less  than  we  thought. 
Really,  he  was  quite  the  life  and  soul  of  Lady  Bern- 
bridge's  party  the  other  afternoon." 

Lowood  remained  after  the  others.  He  saw  that  the 
moment  the  door  closed  upon  Mrs.  de  Lisle's  handsome 
black  and  white  silk  tail  Joan  set  aside  her  gaiety. 
She  crossed  the  room,  and  with  a  dull  air  of  relief  sat 
down  beside  him. 

After  a  minute : 

"  Talk,"  she  said,  "  tell  me  about  Scrope-Denton 
and  what  everybody  has  been  doing  "  —  a  little  gleam 
of  her  old  mischief  shot  into  her  eyes  —  "  and  saying," 
she  added. 

He  told  her  scraps  of  news.  But  he  saw  she  was  not 
interested.  He  saw  that  she  was  listening  for  a  name, 
which  in  punishment  of  her  sins  he  would  not  mention. 

"  And  Alma  and  Mrs.  Beaumont?  " 

"  They  are  still  here.  Miss  Wenlith  and  I  were 
roaming  among  the  Pleiades  on  Wednesday." 

"  They're  some  sort  of  stars,  I  suppose,"  she  said 
languidly.  "  Hasn't  Alma  finished  with  her  stars 
yet?" 

After  a  pause : 

"  Were  Alma  and  Mrs.  Beaumont  frightfully 
shocked  —  about  me  ?  "  she  asked  with  sudden  brusque- 
ness. 

"  They  were  duly  surprised,"  he  told  her  drily. 

"  They  should  have  known  me  better  than  to  be 
surprised  at  anything  I  do,"  she  said  as  drily,  "  I  was 
always  a  fickle  sort  of  beast." 

The  door  opened.  Hummerstone  lounged  in,  hands 
in  pockets.  He  wore  an  air  of  chuckling  complacency 
and  looked  smugly  sleek.  He  had  grown  fatter  since 
Lowood  had  last  seen  him.  No  doubt  the  sense  that 
he  was  handsomely  provided  for  for  life  had  relieved 
his  mind  of  the  bugbear,  work. 


After  the  Honeymoon  269 

He  showed  some  embarrassment  on  seeing  Lowood. 
He  had  thought  all  the  visitors  were  gone.  The  em- 
barrassment was  only  momentary.  His  air  of  sleek 
and  gratified  complacency  returned.  He  lounged  up 
the  room  with  a  deliberation  which  was  insolence. 

"  Hello,  Godpa !  "  he  said.    "  You  here?  " 

Lowood  was  too  much  engrossed  in  trying  to  dis- 
cover the  nature  of  the  strong  emotion  which  Hummer- 
stone's  advent  immediately  excited  in  his  bride  to 
resent  his  insolence.  She  sat  impassive,  her  eyes 
dropped,  that  leaden  film  over  every  limb  and  feature. 
He  could  not  say  whether  beneath  it  were  affection, 
or  hate,  or  anger,  or  pleasure. 

Having  dutifully  shaken  hands  with  his  guest  the 
bridegroom  seated  himself  on  an  arm  of  his  wife's 
chair.  He  turned  his  head  and  regarded  her  with  a 
smiling  stare.  Then,  with  an  air  of  proprietorship, 
he  took  that  one  of  her  hands  which  was  nearer  to  him, 
laid  it  familiarly  upon  his  large  knee  and  played  with 
it. 

The  hand  remained  passive,  neither  returning  nor 
resisting  his  caress.  He  slid  the  other  arm  across  the 
back  of  her  chair,  and  still  with  that  air  of  proprietor- 
ship, began  to  rub  his  deft  fat  ringers  up  and  down  her 
cheek. 

Lowood,  glancing  sideways  at  her  motionless  face 
and  form,  saw  a  strange  lethargy  steal  over  her.  Her 
eyes  turned  listlessly  toward  him  like  the  eyes  of  a 
woman  drugged. 

Hummerstone  babbled  all  the  while  of  places  they 
had  visited,  of  sights  they  had  seen  during  their  bridal 
trip.  It  appeared  to  have  been  a  rapid  race  across  the 
Continent.  They  had  flown,  as  the  tourist  crow  flies, 
from  point  to  point  of  popular  interest,  merely  setting 
but  not  resting  foot  anywhere,  an  odious  helter-skelter 
through  many  impressions  without  halting  to  enjoy 
one. 

He  assumed  the  air  of  a  millionaire,  boasted  of  the 


270  The  Whips  of  Time 

expensive  hotels  at  which  they  had  stopped,  of  the  cost 
of  things  they  had  bought,  of  the  methods  de  luxe  of 
their  journey,  as  though  he  considered  that  to  spend 
lavishly  his  bride's  fortune  was  a  noble  art. 

Joan  scarcely  spoke.  Sometimes  when  Hummer- 
stone  demanded  her  corroboration  she  assented 
mechanically  to  his  proposition. 

Lowood  listened,  concealing  his  disgust  beneath  a 
show  of  interest.  Hummerstone  inwardly  sneered  at 
his  show  of  interest.  Even  Lowood  the  philosopher 
was  impressed,  he  thought,  by  his  new  importance.  He 
contrasted  this  show  of  interest  with  the  cold  shoulder 
he  had  shown  to  him  when  last  he  had  asked  the 
hospitality  of  Homer  Cottage.  He  could  not  have 
been  made  to  understand  that  as  the  hunter,  the  scien- 
tist, the  religious,  and  all  other  devotees,  will  risk  life 
and  limb  in  the  acquisition  of  their  quarry,  so  the 
psychologist  will,  for  the  love  of  his  art,  risk  snubs 
and  personal  humiliations  in  order  to  hang  another 
character-scalp  at  his  belt. 

The  Folly  had  now  become  for  Lowood  a  centre  of 
interesting  human  developments.  In  order  that  he 
might  be  in  a  position  to  study  these  closely  he  was 
prepared  even  to  be  snubbed  by  Hummerstone. 

When  he  presently  rose  to  go  Joan  gave  him  a 
languid  hand.  Her  eyes  were  still  the  eyes  of  a  woman 
drugged.  Hummerstone  accompanied  him  to  the  door 
and  went  with  him  out  upon  the  steps  in  order  to  be 
out  of  the  hearing  of  a  servant. 

"  So  you  see  I  got  there  after  all,"  he  told  him  with 
an  offensive  triumph  in  his  eye  and  voice.  "  I'm  settled 
handsomely  for  life." 

Lowood  looked  him  searchingly  in  the  face. 

"  I  should  like  to  know  how  you  managed  it." 

The  young  man  laughed  and  turned  upon  his  heel. 

"  I  told  you  I  had  a  way  with  'em,"  he  said. 

Lowood  had  not  gone  far  down  the  drive  before  he 
heard  a  step  behind  him.  He  heard  in  it  pursuit  of 


After  the  Honeymoon  271 

himself.  He  turned.  Mrs.  Hummerstone  —  it  was  the 
first  time  he  had  so  called  her  in  his  mind  —  came  up 
with  him.  She  stood  for  some  moments  in  silence. 
The  lethargy  had  passed.  She  was  her  old  assertive 
self. 

Then: 

"  Dr.  Lowood,"  she  said  abruptly,  "  mother  refuses 
to  say  a  word.  You  must  tell  me  something.  I  can't 
ask  anybody  else.  How  did  Mark  bear  it  ?  Is  he  here 
in  Scrope-Denton  ?  " 

"  Yes.  He  bears  it  well  —  outwardly.  But  I  can 
see  that  it  has  been  a  great  blow  to  him." 

She  resumed,  in  the  same  abrupt  tone: 

"  If  he  had  been  going  to  —  to  do  anything  desper- 
ate he  would  have  done  it  at  once,  wouldn't  he  ?  " 

"  Since  you  have  mentioned  the  subject,"  Lowood 
said,  "  may  I  tell  you,  Mrs.  Hummerstone,  that  in  my 
opinion  it  would  be  not  only  kind  but  wise  if  you  and 
your  husband  were  to  leave  Scrope-Denton  for  a  time." 

"  Why  ?    Of  what  are  you  afraid  ?  " 

"  I  am  not  afraid.  But  naturally  it  will  be  hard  for 
Hestroyde  to  meet  you  and  your  husband  while  his  loss 
is  still  fresh  upon  him." 

"  He  can  go  away  —  if  he  wishes,"  she  said  through 
her  teeth. 

"  No.  His  father  is  ill.  Besides,  Legh  tells  me  he 
is  pressed  for  money.  He  has  been  spending  a  good 
deal  of  late." 

A  hard  look  came  into  her  eyes,  as  though  she  were 
fortifying  herself  against  the  conscience  which  re- 
minded her  why  Hestroyde  had  been  spending  his 
money. 

Then  she  broke  out  suddenly : 

"  I  can't  go  away.  I  must  stop  here.  I  loathe 
travelling.  I  won't  go  away." 

"Of  course  you  must  do  as  you  please.  But  —  " 
He  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

She  laughed  harshly. 


272  The  Whips  of  Time 

"Will  Mark  shoot  him?" 

He  was  shocked.  It  seemed  brutal  of  her  so  to 
state  it. 

"Of  course  not,"  he  said,  "  we  don't  live  in  days  of 
melodrama." 

"  Has  he  told  Bobby  Legh  or  you  what  he  thinks 
of  me  ?  Oh,  have  you  nothing  to  tell  me  ?  "  she  broke 
out  with  sudden  heat. 

He  insisted  that  there  was  nothing  to  tell.  Hestroyde 
did  not  speak  of  her. 


CHAPTER    XXX 

TROUBLE  AT    MOON  BANK 

IT  appeared  that  the  gods  were  now  raining  down 
upon  Scrope-Denton  the  things  which  had  been  on 
their  knees.  Moonbank  came  in  for  a  missile. 

A  few  mornings  later  Lowood,  going  to  give  Alma 
a  lesson  upon  something  or  another,  was  inquisitively 
catechised. 

"  Joan  Hummerstone  —  how  odd  it  sounds !  — 
came  in  last  evening,"  Alma  greeted  him.  She  looked 
at  him  with  puzzled  eyes.  "  If  Joan  didn't  like  Mr. 
Hummerstone  why  did  she  marry  him?  " 

He  replied  by  another  question. 

"  If  Joan  hadn't  liked  Mr.  Hummerstone  would  she 
have  married  him  ?  " 

She  laughed. 

"  I  have  still  another  to  ask.  If  Joan  likes  Mr. 
Hummerstone  why  is  she  so  dull  and  unhappy?  She 
is  absolutely  changed." 

He  fenced.  He  reminded  her  that  he  was  a  bachelor 
and  knew  nothing  of  the  ways  and  moods  of  women. 
He  added  a  devout  "  Thank  Heaven !  "  because  he  was 
a  bachelor. 

She  laughed  again. 

"  I  believe,"  she  said,  "  that  you  are  worse  off  than 
any  husband  of  one  wife,  because,  so  far  as  I  can  see, 
all  the  wives  and  daughters  of  the  place  put  their 
troubles  upon  you.  Had  you  been  married,  I,  for 
example,  should  never  have  ventured  to  rob  your  wife 
of  you  in  order  to  turn  you  into  my  astronomer." 

He  replied  gallantly  that  he  preferred  to  be  her 
astronomer  to  being  any  other  woman's  husband. 


274  The  Whips  of  Time 

"  For  such  a  pretty  speech,"  she  said,  "  I  will  show 
you  the  lovely  Florentine  jewel-case  Joan  brought  back 
from  Italy  for  me." 

When  she  had  gone  he  found  his  quick  sympathies 
engaged  upon  her  case.  Whatsoever  the  trouble 
between  her  and  Burghwallis,  it  was  playing  havoc 
with  her  life.  She  was  pale,  with  a  distressing  pallor. 
She  was  obviously  unhappy.  In  her  eyes  now  were 
neither  lamps  nor  fires,  but  only  a  strange  quenched 
look  which  went  to  his  soft  heart. 

"  What  fools  these  mortals  be !  "  he  reflected,  angry 
with  the  sympathetic  heart  which  gave  him  pangs  and 
had  never  given  him  blisses. 

Turning  his  head,  he  caught  in  one  of  Beauty's 
mirrors  a  glimpse  of  himself.  His  face  was  as  long 
as  a  fiddle. 

"  Bless  my  soul !  "  he  said  testily,  "  what  an  old 
fool  am  I.  What  business  in  the  world  is  it  of  mine 
if  these  silly  women  eat  out  their  hearts?  Not  one 
of  them  spares  a  moment's  sentiment  for  me." 

He  took  up  a  Morning  Post  which  lay  upon  the 
table  in  the  folds  in  which  it  had  lain  unopened  since 
it  had  been  handed  in.  Shaking  it  out  with  an  energy 
which  he  intended  to  divert  his  attention  from  feminine 
distresses,  his  eye  was  caught  by  a  headline. 

"  Great  Heavens !  "  he  ejaculated.  And  a  second 
time,  "  Great  Heavens !  "  His  eyes  raked  three  lines 
of  print  for  all  they  held. 

He  laid  down  the  paper  aghast.  Again  his  sym- 
pathetic heart  was  at  its  follies.  Again  his  face  was 
as  long  as  a  fiddle. 

"  And  these  poor  women  evidently  haven't  heard  a 
word,"  he  reflected. 

The  Duke  of  Saxby  was  dead.  The  news  was  told 
in  three  brief  lines  which  had  evidently  been  flung 
into  print  at  the  moment  of  going  to  press.  The  Post 
regretted  to  record  the  sudden  death  from  apoplexy 
of  the  Duke  of  Saxby.  The  death  occurred  late  in 


Trouble  at  Moonbank  275 

the  evening  at  Saxby  House,  Piccadilly.  His  servant 
going  to  his  room  had  found  him  lying  beside  the 
hearthrug. 

While  he  sat  staring  at  the  paragraph,  Alma  re- 
turned with  the  Florentine  jewel-case.  Behind  her 
came  Mrs.  Beaumont,  beautiful,  serene,  and  smiling. 
For  a  moment  his  eyes  reverted  to  the  paragraph  to 
convince  himself  that  he  had  not  been  dreaming.  For 
here  was  the  Duke's  lady,  smiling  and  serene,  while 
the  Duke  lay  dead  in  his  great  house  in  Piccadilly,  his 
eyes  for  ever  closed  upon  her  beauty,  his  wine-coloured 
hand  now  blenched  by  death,  never  again  to  seek 
hers. 

Inexpressibly  shocked,  he  greeted  her  mechanically, 
then  turned  to  admire  Joan's  present  in  the  first  con- 
ventional words  which  came  to  his  lips.  All  the  while 
he  was  wondering  what  he  ought  to  do.  Should  he 
break  the  news  to  them?  Would  it  not  be  brutal  to 
leave  them  to  find  it  in  the  paper,  or  to  learn  it  from 
some  startled  servant? 

"  I'm  afraid  you  don't  admire  Florentine  work,"  he 
heard  Alma  say,  disappointed,  and  as  it  seemed  from 
a  distance. 

He  protested  forcibly  that  he  admired  it  beyond 
all  things.  Overdone  enthusiasm  is  as  unconvincing 
as  is  faint  praise.  Alma  showed  herself  a  little  nettled. 
She  returned  the  really  beautiful  thing  to  its  case  as 
though  she  were  in  haste  to  shelter  it  from  his  unap- 
preciative  eyes. 

While  he  still  deliberated,  his  course  of  action  was, 
as  so  often  happens,  determined  for  him.  For  Mrs. 
Beaumont  laid  a  little  lovely  hand  upon  the  Post. 

"  I  declare  I  haven't  read  a  word  of  to-day's  news," 
she  said.  "  I  slept  so  badly  after  a  horrid  dream  that 
I  dozed  again  after  my  morning  tea  and  was  down 
shockingly  late." 

Lowood  had  no  alternative.  He  took  the  paper 
from  her  hand. 


276  The  Whips  of  Time 

"  I  am  grieved  to  tell  you,"  he  said  gently,  "  that 
there  is  bad  news  in  it." 

Her  large  eyes  lifted  to  his  and  widened  upon  him 
like  those  of  a  frightened  child.  Her  face  became  a 
face  of  soft  white  wax.  She  tried  to  speak  and  failed. 
Her  wax  lips  would  not  formulate  the  words.  But 
he  knew  that  she  knew.  She  tried  again. 

"  George  is  dead,"  she  said  in  a  hoarse  whisper. 
Then  she  dropped  like  a  stone  to  the  floor  and  lay 
there  in  her  silks  and  laces.  Lowood  had  been  just 
in  time  to  break  the  violence  of  her  fall.  Alma  helping 
him,  he  raised  her  in  his  arms  and  carried  her  to  a 
couch.  She  was  quite  insensible. 

"  Is  it  true  ?  Oh,  is  it  true  ?  "  Alma  whispered, 
appalled. 

Lowood,  in  his  capacity  of  physician,  loosed  the 
patient's  dress  and  chafed  the  chill,  white,  perfect 
hands.  The  man  in  him  groaned  above  her  loveli- 
ness. 

"  What  will  she  do  ?  "  Alma  whispered,  as  though 
afraid  of  recalling  her  to  her  loss.  "  She  was  so  fond 
of  him.  They  were  so  fond  of  one  another." 

Tears  rolled  down  her  own  white  cheeks. 

"  Poor,  poor  Uncle  George !  " 

When  Mrs.  Beaumont  presently  recovered  she  fell 
into  a  state  of  quiet  weeping,  the  quiet  weeping  of  a 
heartbroken,  docile  child.  Lowood  withdrew,  leaving 
the  women  with  their  grief.  Alma  was  to  send  for 
him  should  she  need  help  of  any  sort. 

In  the  hall  he  found  the  servants  talking  with  their 
heads  together.  It  was  plain  that  they  had  heard  the 
news.  They  were  discussing  the  effect  upon  them- 
selves which  this  change  in  the  fortunes  of  their  mis- 
tress would  make. 

"  Has  Mrs.  Beaumont  heard,  sir  ?  "  the  man  who 
opened  the  door  for  him  asked. 

He  told  him  "  Yes." 

The  man  shook  his  head. 


Trouble  at  Moonbank  277 

"  Filmer,  his  Grace's  valet,  said  the  last  time  he 
was  here  that  his  Grace  wouldn't  hold  out  much 
longer." 

Lowood  called  in  the  evening  to  see  Alma. 

"  She  does  nothing  but  cry,"  the  girl  said,  herself 
crying.  "  How  terrible  death  is !  I  have  never  known 
it  before." 

Lowood  was  truly  sorry  for  her.  There  was,  he 
reflected,  a  further  blow  coming  to  her.  Now  she 
must  learn  the  truth  of  her  aunt's  position. 

For  a  whole  week  there  was  still  the  same  story  to 
tell.  Mrs.  Beaumont  did  little  but  quietly  cry.  She 
was  docile  and  did  what  they  bade  her,  eating  and 
dressing  and  living  mechanically.  But  she  cried 
quietly  during  it  all. 

Lowood  wondered  what  she  would  do  presently 
when  she  should  have  recovered  sufficiently  to  face 
the  situation.  The  Duke,  he  supposed,  had  already 
made  settlements  or  would  have  left  her  handsomely 
provided  for.  He  did  not  know  whether  or  not  Moon- 
bank  were  entailed.  Otherwise  it  was  likely  Saxby 
would  have  left  the  house  to  her  with  means  sufficient 
to  maintain  it. 

He  was  undeceived.  A  week  later  he  found  the 
household  in  revolt.  The  lodge-keeper  was  missing 
from  her  post.  He  was  compelled  to  open  the  gate 
for  himself.  In  the  house  the  velvet-footed  obsequi- 
ousness was  a  thing  of  the  past.  The  man  who  opened 
the  door  to  him  did  so  with  a  sour  brusqueness.  An- 
other footman  in  his  shirt-sleeves  was  apparent  in  the 
background.  There  was  an  undercurrent  everywhere 
of  bustle  and  noise. 

"  Has  anything  happened  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Happened  ?  "  the  servant  retorted.  "  I  should  say 
so  indeed.  They  say  his  Grace  haven't  left  her  a  penny 
piece.  And  who's  agoin'  to  pay  us  our  wages  is  what 
we  all  want  to  know." 

He  spoke  disrespectfully.     Why  waste  respect  upon 


278  The  Whips  of  Time 

the  visitor  of  a  mistress  who  was  unable  to  pay  even 
for  service? 

"  I  don't  think  you  need  alarm  yourselves,"  Lowood 
told  him  drily.  "  No  doubt  the  Duke's  executors  will 
see  that  you  do  not  go  unpaid." 

"  Yes,  up  to  the  day  of  his  Grace's  death,  perhaps," 
the  man  returned,  "  but  she's  responsible  after.  And 
they  say  she  haven't  got  a  ha'penny  to  bless  herself 
with." 

In  the  boudoir  a  black-robed  person  moved  to  meet 
him.  The  news  had  dried  her  tears  and  had  brought 
her  downstairs.  Heartbroken  as  she  undoubtedly  was, 
her  shrewd  sense  told  her  that  tears  were  no  weapon 
with  which  to  meet  such  a  crisis. 

Scarcely  waiting  for  his  condolences: 

"  Dr.  Lowood,"  she  broke  out,  "  can  you  believe  it? 
After  all  these  years  he  has  left  me  destitute.  And  he 
always  promised  to  leave  Moonbank  to  me  and  plenty 
of  money.  Heaven  knows  what  I  am  to  do." 

She  was  dressed  in  the  latest  and  most  sumptuous 
mode  of  widow's  mourning.  When  she  had  ordered 
it,  it  had  been  in  full  confidence  of  ample  means. 

"  Have  you  had  definite  and  authorised  news?" 

"  Yes.  The  lawyer  was  here  yesterday.  The  will 
has  been  read.  It  is  twelve  years  old.  He  had  made 
a  later  one,  but  he  had  not  signed  it.  My  name  is  not 
even  mentioned  in  any  document  or  paper,  nor  Alma's. 
He  always  told  me  he  would  leave  something  to 
Alma." 

"  The  new  Duke  will  perhaps  make  a  settlement." 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  Not  a  penny,"  she  said.  "  He  always  hated  me. 
He— I  —  ' 

Lowood  gathered  that  a  time  had  been  when  she 
had  been  called  upon  to  decide  between  the  two 
brothers,  and  had  chosen  the  reigning  Duke  in  the 
place  of  the  mere  heir-apparent. 

"  George  has  left  Moonbank  to  Lord  Anthony,"  she 


Trouble  at  Moonbank  279 

resumed.  "  Just  now  Lord  Anthony  is  abroad.  But 
the  lawyer  told  me  he  had  cabled  that  I  was  to  be 
allowed  to  remain  on  here  as  long  as  it  was  convenient 
to  me.  It's  very  kind  of  him,  I'm  sure.  He  has 
always  been  very  kind  to  me  and  Alma." 

Lowood  suggested  delicately  that  Lord  Anthony 
might  come  to  the  rescue.  She  shook  her  head  dole- 
fully. Lord  Anthony  was  not  at  all  well  off. 

"  I  have  only  my  jewels,"  she  said,  and  burst  into 
tears.  It  was  as  though  she  had  said  she  had  only 
her  soul  to  be  exchanged  for  bread  and  butter. 

When  she  had  recovered  : 

"  Miss  Alma  —  '  he  began. 

She  flushed  guiltily. 

"  Alma  has  never  known  the  truth.  I  haven't  liked 
to  tell  her.  She  does  not  know  now.  She  is  very 
angry  with  him  for  leaving  me  destitute.  But  I  think 
Alma  will  be  all  right.  Lord  Anthony  is  sure  to  see 
to  that.  He  has  always  been  fond  of  her  since  she 
was  a  child." 

"  You  think  he  will  marry  her?  " 

She  shifted  uneasily.     She  avoided  his  eye. 

"  I  think  Alma  will  be  all  right,"  she  repeated. 

Alma  came  in.    Her  eyes  burned  in  her  pale  face. 

"  I  suppose  auntie  has  told  you,"  she  broke  out. 
"  Oh,  wasn't  it  wicked  of  him  to  be  so  careless,  to 
leave  the  will  unsigned?  You  poor  dear,"  she  went 
on,  turning  to  her  elder,  who  began  again  to  cry,  "  I 
am  sure  he  meant  to  do  everything  kind.  He  was 
devoted  to  you.  But  what  an  abominable  law  it  is, 
Dr.  Lowood,  which  gives  a  wife  nothing  unless  her 
husband  formally  leaves  it.  I  told  the  lawyer  so.  He 
couldn't  deny  it.  He  looked  quite  stupid  and  muttered 
inaudible  things.  He  seemed  ashamed  of  being  con- 
nected with  such  an  unjust  law." 

Lowood  pictured  the  poor  man's  surprised  discom- 
fiture to  find  the  girl  ignorant  of  the  facts. 

"  Luckily,"   she  went  on  eagerly,   "  through  your 


280  The  Whips  of  Time 

kindness  I  shall  be  able  to  teach  —  to  teach  astronomy, 
or,  if  it  comes  to  that,  to  teach  children  reading  and 
writing." 

Lowood  eyed  her  ruefully.  She  knew  nothing  abso- 
lutely of  the  life  she  had  now  to  face.  Who  in  the 
world  desired  to  learn  astronomy?  In  these  days  of 
cut-and-dried  certificated  knowledge,  of  what  value 
would  be  her  wide  but  heterogeneous  reading,  her 
storehouse  of  imagination,  her  fine  order  of  mind? 
And  apart  from  all  these  things,  what  mother  of  a 
family  would  entrust  the  education  of  her  boys  and 
girls  to  a  member  of  the  Moonbank  menage"? 

"  But,  Alma,"  her  aunt  interposed,  "  I  tell  you  Lord 
Anthony  —  " 

The  girl's  face  hardened. 

"  Yes,  dear,"  she  said  quickly,  "  but  don't  tell  me 
again.  Of  course  I  cannot  be  dependent  upon  any- 
body. And  it  will  be  really  most  interesting  to  get 
one's  own  living." 

Mrs.  Beaumont  swept  her  beautiful  eyes  to  Lowood. 
She  lifted  and  dropped  in  despair  her  beautiful,  help- 
less hands. 

"  Alma  knows  nothing  about  things,"  she  said. 

On  the  steps,  as  Lowood  went  out,  he  met  Joan, 
still  cloaked  and  veiled  in  her  role  of  Miss  Smith. 

"  Is  it  true  that  the  old  wretch  has  left  her  noth- 
ing? "  she  demanded  in  her  former  direct  fashion. 

Lowood  began  to  excuse  him.  There  had  been  a 
later  unsigned  will  — 

"  He  ought  to  be  whipped  for  not  having  signed 
it,"  she  said  indignantly.  "  What  are  the  poor  things 
to  do?" 

When  Alma  had  told  her  all  the  woes  and  plans : 

"  It's  all  rubbish,"  she  said  practically,  "  for  you 
to  talk  of  teaching.  Nobody  nowadays  wants  to  know 
any  of  the  things  you  could  teach.  Who  cares  two- 
pence for  astronomy  and  mysticism?  You  must  write 
books.  That's  the  thing  for  you  to  do.  You  know 


Trouble  at  Moonbank  281 

so  much  and  have  so  much  imagination  you  could 
write  novels  like  a  house  on  fire.  And  I'll  take  you 
in,  of  course,  if  you  will  come.  I  will  rig  you  up  a 
study  in  the  tower." 

Alma  fell  upon  her  neck  and  kissed  her. 

"Oh,  Joan,"  she  said,  "how  beautiful  of  you! 
And  do  you  really  think  I  could  write  books  ?  " 

Joan  was  convinced  of  it.  There  was  no  difficulty 
about  it  at  all.  With  so  many  notions  as  Alma  had, 
she  had  simply  to  write  them  down,  divide  them  into 
chapters,  get  them  printed  and  published  and  —  the 
thing  was  done.  They  would  probably  take  the  world 
by  storm. 

"  You  may  be  a  second  Mrs.  Browning,"  she  in- 
sisted. "  Although  I  can't  read  poetry  myself.  It 
seems  such  rot." 

"  But  auntie  —  "  Alma  said,  and  looked  at  auntie, 
sitting  forlorn  in  her  chair. 

Joan's  face  fell.  She  was  obviously  embarrassed. 
She  knew  her  world  well  enough  to  be  aware  that  to 
make  the  Duke's  lady  an  inmate  of  her  house  was  out 
of  the  question.  If  her  world  would  accept  Alma  it 
was  the  very  utmost  to  be  expected  of  its  charity. 

Mrs.  Beaumont  also  knew  the  world.  Joan's  em- 
barrassment and  fallen  face  were  open  pages  to  her. 

"  Oh,  I  shall  do  well  enough,"  she  protested. 
"  There  are  numbers  of  things  I  can  do.  You  know, 
Alma,  I  sing,  I  have  been  trained."  (Once  upon  a 
time,  although  Alma  knew  nothing  of  this,  she  had 
sung  in  public  little  songs  of  which  Alma  knew  still 
less.)  "And  I  can  dance."  (The  little  songs  had 
been  accompanied  by  little  dances  in  tights  and  span- 
gles. But  of  course  Alma  had  no  suspicion  of  either.) 
"  I  can  teach  singing  and  dancing.  And  if  the  worst 
comes  to  the  worst  I  have  my  jewels." 

Again  she  wept.  Her  jewels  were  the  apples  of  her 
eyes. 


CHAPTER   XXXI 

A   NEW    LEAF 

A  PITIFUL  fact  of  life  is  that  no  man  knows  his  fellow's 
heart.  If  he  could  see  there,  as  he  can  see  in  his  own, 
the  griefs  and  hopes,  the  fluttering-  fears  and  aspira- 
tions, the  good  intentions  which  are  only  just  too  weak 
to  translate  themselves  into  actions  —  in  a  word,  all 
those  poor  fledglings  of  our  undevelopment  which  are 
striving  hard  to  fly,  man's  inhumanity  to  man  would 
cease.  But  the  mask  of  flesh  which  conceals  these  per- 
turbations is,  it  may  be,  a  mask  of  smooth  and  well-fed 
flesh,  a  confident  gait,  a  cool  eye  and  a  controlled 
manner.  For  this  reason  the  half-hearted  sinner,  who 
craves  nothing  more  than  for  strength  to  turn  over 
a  new  leaf,  may  show  to  his  fellows  as  a  robust  ruffian 
who  no  doubt  glories  in  his  iniquities  and  pursues  his 
career  of  crime  without  a  qualm. 

Mrs.  Beaumont,  like  other  human  persons,  was 
aware  within  her  lovely  flesh  of  a  conscience  which 
pricked  her,  of  regrets  because  she  was  not  a  better 
woman,  of  resolutions  never  again  so  long  as  she  lived 
to  depart  from  the  path  of  virtue.  For  she  had  not 
been  able  to  believe  that  her  position  was  a  vicious  one. 
She  had  been  sincerely  attached  to  the  Duke.  She  had 
nursed  him  devotedly  through  illness,  had  done  her 
best  to  save  him  from  his  besetting  sin,  drink,  had 
frequently  mildly  reproved  him  for  swearing,  and  for 
ten  whole  years  had  never  thought  of  any  other  man. 
Of  course  it  was  wrong.  Neither  the  law  nor  the 
Church  had  sanctioned  their  union.  But  she  was  so 
fond  of  him  that  she  had  not  been  able  to  believe  that 
she  was  a  wicked  woman. 


A  New  Leaf  283 

Now,  however,  a  crisis  had  arisen.  Those  prickings 
of  conscience  and  fluttering  aspirations  were  to  be  put 
to  the  test.  Had  the  Duke  left  her  enough  money  to 
live  upon  she  was  convinced  she  could  have  remained 
a  good  woman  for  the  rest  of  her  life.  She  would  even 
—  when  she  should  have  been  a  little  older  —  have 
gone  about  visiting  the  poor  and  practising  other  sim- 
ilar virtues,  and  would  have  mourned  her  lost  lover 
as  faithfully  as  though  he  had  been  her  lawful  husband. 

But  it  costs  money  sometimes  to  maintain  ideals. 
And  he  had  left  her  destitute.  She  could  not  therefore 
afford  to  mend  her  ways  after  the  luxurious  and  hand- 
some fashion  she  had  contemplated.  Despite  her  grief 
she  could  not  help  feeling  a  sad  sense  of  injury  against 
him.  He  might  have  left  her  enough  money  to  be 
good  upon,  and  yet  to  keep  her  jewels. 

For  a  week  after  Joan's  visit  she  pondered  the 
situation  deeply  —  deeply  enough  to  cause  her  some 
severe  headaches  in  addition  to  her  heartaches.  Re- 
lieved of  the  responsibility  of  Alma,  who,  if  Burgh- 
wallis  did  not  do  something  for  her,  would  soon  be 
making  money  by  her  books,  she  was  free  to  do  what 
she  would  with  her  remaining  years. 

At  the  end  of  a  week  she  had  made  up  her  mind  — 
not  very  firmly,  but  definitely.  She  would  be  a  good 
woman.  Her  life  hitherto  had  been  happy  and  lux- 
urious (her  tears  broke  forth  afresh).  The  remainder 
of  it  should  be  good  (a  fresh  rain  of  tears  in  self-pity 
for  all  that  she  intended  to  renounce). 

Alma  observed  that  she  sat  absorbed  for  hours 
poring  over  the  advertisement  columns  of  the  news- 
papers, that  with  her  gold-handled  scissors  she  cut  out 
little  slips,  while  Janita  stared  out  her  big  eyes  in  fond 
astonishment  to  discover  the  meaning  of  this  new 
activity  on  the  part  of  her  adored  mistress,  an  activity 
which  led  to  the  heartless  neglect  of  a  little  dog.  To 
Alma's  questions  she  replied  that  she  was  trying  to 
amuse  herself,  but  her  puzzled  brows  and  her  dejected 


284  The  Whips  of  Time 

look  made  it  appear  that  she  was  not  very  well  suc- 
ceeding. She  pinned  the  slips  carefully  together  with 
an  emerald-headed  pin  and  put  them  away  in  a  jewelled 
reticule. 

By  this  time  the  house  had  been  reduced  to  order. 
For  Burghwallis  had  instructed  his  lawyers  that  until 
he  could  return  Moonbank  was  to  be  kept  up  at  his 
expense.  Therefore  the  servants,  although  not  now 
particularly  velvet-footed,  did  not  go  about  in  shirt- 
sleeves. 

At  the  end  of  another  week,  having  now  quite  a 
little  sheaf  of  cuttings  impaled  upon  her  jewelled  pin, 
Mrs.  Beaumont  was  ready  for  action.  She  amazed 
Alma  one  morning  by  joining  her  at  the  eight  o'clock 
breakfast,  which  was  Alma's  custom,  in  order  to  allow 
her  a  long  day  of  work.  The  unprecedented  act  set 
Alma's  eyes  opening.  They  opened  still  more  widely 
when  she  observed  her  relative  more  closely.  In  all 
her  experience  of  her  she  had  never  seen  her  dressed 
like  this. 

She  wore  a  plain  and  closely-fitting  gown  of  some 
black  homely  stuff.  Alma  supposed  she  must  have 
borrowed  it  from  one  of  her  maids.  A  little  cambric 
collar  was  its  sole  embellishment.  Her  beautiful  amber 
hair  was  parted  simply  on  her  brows  and  gathered  into 
a  smooth  knot  behind.  A  cameo  brooch,  an  exquisite 
thing,  and  a  wedding  ring  were  all  of  her  jewels.  On 
her  amber  hair  was  set  a  small  black  bonnet  such  as 
lady's-maids  sometimes  wear.  But  on  her  amber  hair 
it  did  not  look  in  the  least  like  a  lady's-maid's  bonnet. 
It  suggested  a  charming  freak  on  the  part  of  Aphrodite 
to  masquerade  as  a  genteel  person  of  the  lower  middle 
classes.  Her  lovely  eyelashes  were  damp  still  with 
tears  she  had  shed  upon  seeing  herself  in  this  guise. 
For  she  had  an  artistic  taste  in  dress,  and  to  the  eye 
artistic  a  bonnet  is  an  abomination.  Men  have  won  a 
D.  S.  O.  for  acts  less  brave  than  was  hers  when  she 
braced  herself  to  face  London  in  it, 


A  New  Leaf  285 

There  had  been  always  a  great  gulf  of  reserve 
between  her  and  Alma,  the  gulf  which  separates 
natures  widely  dissimilar.  Alma  made  no  remark 
therefore  upon  the  dress  and  bonnet,  and  when  her 
aunt  announced  briefly  that  she  should  be  all  day  in 
London  she  asked  no  questions. 

When  at  half-past  eight  a  carriage  was  announced, 
Mrs.  Beaumont  rose  in  a  state  of  agitation.  Arrived 
at  the  door,  she  turned  back  and,  with  a  rare  show 
of  emotion,  kissed  Alma  affectionately. 

"  I'm  so  wretched,  dear,  you  don't  know,"  she  said, 
"  But  wish  me  luck." 

Alma  returned  her  kiss  cordially. 

"  With  all  my  heart,"  she  said.  "  But  what  are 
you  going  to  do  ?  " 

Mrs.  Beaumont  looked  about  her  with  a  shamefaced 
air.  Then  finding  nobody  within  hearing  she  said,  in 
a  hurried,  abased  whisper : 

"  I  am  going  to  find  a  situation." 

"  A  situation !  "  Alma  echoed  blankly. 

"  Yes,  dear,"  she  tapped  her  jewelled  reticule,  "  I've 
cut  out  a  lot  of  advertisements.  I'm  going  to-day  to 
see  all  the  people.  You  see,  as  he  left  me  nothing  I 
must  do  something.  And  I  shall  get  used  to  it  in 
time." 

Alma  was  shocked.  She  found  it  pitiful  —  this 
spasm  of  practical  effort  on  the  part  of  the  lovely, 
helpless  creature,  whose  luxurious  life  had  so  unfitted 
her  for  practical  efforts. 

"  Oh,"  she  protested,  "  don't  think  of  such  a  thing. 
I  shall  be  able  by  my  books  to  make  enough  for  both 
of  us." 

Mrs.  Beaumont  shook  her  bonneted  wise  head. 

"  In  a  week  or  two  we  shall  have  to  leave  Moon- 
bank.  And  your  books  are  not  begun  yet.  Books 
take  a  long  time  to  print,  Alma.  I  once  knew  a  writer 
who  starved  to  death  because  nobody  would  buy  his 
books;  his  name  was  Chalmers." 


286  The  Whips  of  Time 

"  I  am  afraid,  dear,"  Alma  said  compunctiously, 
"  until  I  can  make  a  little  money,  you  will  have  to  sell 
some  of  your  jewels.  Not  those  you  like  best,  of 
course,  but  some  of  the  others.  That  would  be  much 
nicer  and  more  sensible  than  taking  a  situation." 

Mrs.  Beaumont's  lovely  mouth  set. 

"  It  may  come  to  that,"  she  admitted,  "  but  if  I 
find  a  situation  I  shall  be  able  to  keep  them." 

That  in  such  a  situation  as  she  was  seeking  she 
would  not  be  able  to  wear  them  seemed  to  have  escaped 
her. 

Her  maid  brought  in  a  black  dolman.  With  rather 
a  disdainful  nose  she  adjusted  it  over  her  mistress's 
shoulders.  If  her  mistress  was  poor  now  and  was 
going  to  see  her  lawyers  it  was  no  reason  that  she 
could  find  to  make  herself  a  perfect  frump.  She  was 
under  notice  to  leave.  (Mrs.  Beaumont's  second  maid, 
on  learning  her  mistress's  destitute  state,  had  quitted 
the  house  indignantly.  She  would  never  have  risked 
her  reputation  by  taking  service  at  Moonbank  had  she 
suspected  that  Moonbank  would  come  to  this  summary 
and  discreditable  end.  Persons  in  Mrs.  Beaumont's 
position  have  much  to  endure  from  their  servants.) 
The  maid  who  remained  and  disdainfully  adjusted  the 
dolman  was  attached  to  her  mistress,  although  she  had 
no  patience  with  her  for  making  herself  into  a  frump. 
That  was  not  the  way  to  recoup  her  fortunes. 

When  she  had  gone  off  in  her  dolman  and  bonnet, 
shrinking  abashed  from  the  eyes  of  her  unsympathetic 
household  (for  positions  such  as  hers  succeed  only 
when  they  are  notably  successful),  Alma  sat  for  some 
minutes  in  dejected  thought.  Life  was  cruel  and  un- 
just. All  was  obviously  wrong  with  a  world  which 
could  in  the  course  of  a  week  throw  two  women  out 
of  a  state  of  luxurious  security  into  destitution,  and 
one  of  those  women  the  most  beautiful  creature 
in  it. 

Then  it  struck  her  sharply  that  under  these  circum- 


A  New  Leaf  287 

stances  there  was  no  time  to  be  lost.  She  repaired  to 
the  library,  where,  having  locked  the  door  against 
intrusion,  she  put  a  new  nib  into  her  pen  and  sat  down 
to  write  a  book. 


CHAPTER    XXXII 

DEFEAT 

WHEN  Alma  had  recognised  the  cruelty  and  the  in- 
justice of  a  world  which  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye 
could  so  reverse  the  fortunes  of  two  hapless  women, 
she  believed  that  she  had  probed  its  heartlessness  to 
the  core.  That  one  so  amiable  and  so  superbly  lovely 
as  was  Mrs.  Beaumont  would  meet  a  difficulty  in 
obtaining  "  a  situation  "  did  not  occur  to  her.  Who 
would  not  be  proud  to  make  her  a  member  of  their 
household  by  mere  payment  of  a  salary? 

Mrs.  Beaumont  knew  the  world  better,  however. 
She  proved  it  by  detracting  from  her  charms  as  well 
as  she  had  been  able,  by  donning  a  dowdy  garb.  In 
point  of  fact,  however,  her  dowdy  garb  added  a  bizarre 
and  extraordinary  note  to  her  appearance.  Her  beauty 
appeared  to  be  fairly  bursting  out  of  it.  One  no  more 
noted  her  dolman  and  bonnet  than  one  notes  the  hum- 
ble calyx  out  of  which  some  lovely  rose  breaks.  Save 
that  it  gave  her  an  appearance  of  masquerading. 

In  a  state  of  sad  trepidation  she  thrice  passed  and 
repassed  No.  33  Eaton  Square  before  she  found  cour- 
age to  enter  it.  When  finally  she  knocked  upon  the 
door  the  footman  eyed  her  with  impertinent  amaze- 
ment. Yes,  her  ladyship  was  in  but  was  very  much 
occupied.  Would  she  state  her  business?  Oh!  she 
had  called  about  the  advertisement  for  a  housekeeper. 
Would  she  step  into  the  ante-room? 

When  presently  she  was  ushered  into  Lady  M.'s 
presence,  Lady  M.  preserved  her  self-possession  to  a 
degree  which  did  credit  to  her  breeding.  To  her 


Defeat  289 

breeding  may  also  be  accredited  the  fact  that  she  put 
a  few  questions  to  this  extraordinary  applicant  for  the 
post  of  housekeeper.  For  from  the  moment  the  per- 
fect face  and  amber  head  had  met  her  gaze  she  had 
merely  smiled  mentally  at  the  notion  of  such  a  face 
and  head  as  a  part  of  her  menage.  One  had  masculine 
relations  to  consider. 

She  examined  her  curiously  as  Mrs.  Beaumont  ex- 
plained that  she  was  fond  of  housekeeping  and  had 
always  herself  looked  after  things  in  her  own  house. 
Then  she  rose,  dismissing  her.  She  would  let  her 
know  if  she  wished  to  hear  further  from  her. 

Mrs.  Beaumont  departed,  disappointed.  As  I  have 
said,  she  thought  highly  of  rank.  Lady  M.  was  the 
only  countess  on  the  little  sheaf  of  advertisements  in 
her  jewelled  reticule.  The  jewelled  reticule  had  not 
escaped  Lady  M.'s  observation.  She  wondered  what 
could  have  happened  to  set  this  person  seeking  her 
living  by  work.  She  decided  that  the  person  was 
either  in  the  pay  of  some  big  gang  of  burglars  who 
had  designs  upon  her  husband's  priceless  miniatures, 
or  that  the  person  could  not  be  quite  sober. 

Mrs.  Beaumont,  sadly  disconcerted,  stood  at  a  cor- 
ner of  the  square  and  consulted  her  list  for  the  next 
and  last  title  upon  it.  This  was  the  lady  of  a  mere 
baronet.  And  after  her  prolonged  association  with  a 
duke  Mrs.  Beaumont  had  but  small  opinion  of  baro- 
nets' ladies. 

The  baronet's  lady  did  not  trouble  to  ask  her  a 
question.  She  did  not  even  sit  down.  She  was  a 
spare  woman,  of  a  mahogany,  bilious  skin  and  beady 
black  eyes.  She  merely  entered  the  room,  stared  hard, 
stared  again  as  though  she  had  received  a  personal 
affront.  Then  as  though  the  personal  affront  of  her 
visitor's  beauty  increased  with  each  moment  of  its 
presence  she  said  rudely : 

"  Oh,  you  wouldn't  do  at  all.  You  are  not  at  all 
the  sort  of  person  I  require." 


290  The  Whips  of  Time 

She  crossed  the  room  and  rang-  a  bell.  And  Mrs. 
Beaumont,  smarting  all  over,  was  bundled  into  the 
street. 

Dismayed  and  in  a  little  panic,  she  sought  a  place 
of  refuge,  somewhere  in  which  she  could  sit  quie'c  and 
recover  herself.  People  advertised  for  a  housekeeper, 
and  yet  they  did  not  seem  anxious  to  engage  a  house- 
keeper. Perhaps  they  did  not  like  her  to  be  so  hand- 
some. She  signed.  Her  experience  of  life  had  shown 
her  that  no  women  liked  other  women  to  be  handsome. 
She  sighed  again.  Her  experience  of  life  had  also 
shown  her  that  there  were  reasons  for  this  objection 
upon  their  parts. 

When  she  found  a  confectioner's  shop  she  slipped 
inside  to  reinforce  her  courage  and  to  assure  herself, 
by  consulting  a  mirror,  that  her  bonnet  was  not  awry 
or  in  some  way  so  absurd  as  to  create  a  prejudice 
against  her.  The  baronet's  lady  had  looked  at  her  as 
she  might  have  done  had  her  amber  hair  been  stream- 
ing down  her  back. 

The  attendant  who  lounged  forward  to  supply  her 
wants,  when  she  asked  for  a  bun  brought  her  the 
smallest  and  dryest  one  in  the  shop,  and  flung  it  ill- 
naturedly  before  her.  Half-spiteful,  half-weeping,  she 
withdrew  to  stare  at  her  from  a  distance.  No  woman 
had  a  right  to  be  so  lovely  when  other  women  couldn't 
get  a  man  to  look  at  them.  It  would  serve  her  right 
if  the  bun  choked  her. 

The  bun  did  not  choke  her,  however.  On  the  con- 
trary, hard  though  it  was  and  unpalatable,  it  amiably 
supplied  her  with  fresh  force.  And  when  she  had 
asked  and  procured  from  the  spiteful  girl  a  glass  of 
cherry-brandy,  she  felt  quite  courageous. 

That  doctor's  wife  in  Cavendish  Square  might  look 
more  favourably  upon  her.  She  could  not  be  expected 
to  be  so  particular  as  were  titled  women. 

The  doctor's  wife  got  so  far  as  to  ask  her  for  ref- 
erences. Not  that  she  had  the  slightest  intention  of 


Defeat  291 

engaging  her,  but  because  she  was  a  kind-hearted 
woman  and  could  not  easily  invent  an  excuse  for  reject- 
ing her.  But  the  doctor's  wife  was  not  kind-hearted 
after  she  had  seen  how  the  question  of  references  con- 
fused her  visitor  .and  crimsoned  her  beautiful  face. 
The  truth  was  that  this  matter  of  references  had  never 
occurred  to  Mrs.  Beaumont.  It  was  so  long  since  her 
face  had  not  been  her  fortune. 

"  One  always,  of  course,  requires  references,"  the 
lady  said,  and  rose  up  in  her  chair  very  stiffly. 

Again  Mrs.  Beaumont  found  herself  in  the  street 
and  now  with  her  heart  descending  toward  her  little 
patent  leather  boots.  Two  of  her  proposed  employers 
of  the  morning  had  espied  these  elegant  little  boots 
beneath  her  modest  garb,  and  had  found  them  to  be 
cloven  hoofs.  Even  the  Countess  of  M.,  her  feet  being 
large,  did  not  affect  such  boots. 

I  need  not  multiply  examples.  Mrs.  Beaumont  had 
cut  out  with  her  gold-handled  scissors,  nine  advertise- 
ments for  housekeepers  and  one  for  a  companion. 

The  one  for  a  companion  seemed  to  be  a  little  hope- 
ful, as  the  old  lady  who  required  to  be  companioned 
was  blind.  She  was  a  gaunt,  avid  old  woman,  hungry 
for  life,  for  interest,  for  pleasure  and  amusement.  Her 
blindness  prevented  her  from  seeing  the  applicant. 
But,  like  some  frozen  person  set  before  a  fire,  she 
basked  in  the  luxuriant,  warm  atmosphere  radiating 
from  her.  She  caught  her  warm  hands  into  her  old 
chill  ones. 

"  You  are  full  of  vitality  and  health,"  she  cried 
hungrily,  "  I  can  feel  it  in  you.  Yes !  come  at  once. 
You  are  just  the  person  I  require.  I  felt  young  when 
you  entered  the  room.  With  you  to  hold  my  hands 
and  give  me  vital  force  I  might  live  another  twenty 
years." 

But  this  time  Mrs.  Beaumont  fled  of  her  own  will 
—  mustered  her  forces  and  fled  ere  she  should  faint 
in  the  vampire  presence  which  she  felt  was  sucking  out 


292  The  Whips  of  Time 

her  life.  Rather  the  Thames  than  to  live  with  her, 
she  reflected,  for  the  first  time  in  her  placid  life  admit- 
ting a  tragic  thought. 

Of  her  nine  advertisements  for  housekeepers  she 
applied  for  seven  only.  Her  seventh  potential  em- 
ployer was  a  man,  a  rich  financier  with  a  house  in 
Park  Lane.  And  this  was  the  worst  of  all  of  her 
experiences.  It  was  the  straw  which  broke  the  back 
of  her  fine  resolutions.  Faint,  sick  and  desperate  for 
the  most  terrible  day  in  her  life,  she  slipped  into  the 
Park  and  sank  exhausted  on  a  bench. 

In  her  recent  luxurious  career,  sheltered  (although 
not  under  the  law)  from  the  rough  and  callous  coarse- 
ness of  the  struggle  for  existence,  she  had  forgotten 
what  this  struggle  may  be  like.  As  a  girl,  early 
orphaned,  she  had  gone  through  similar  experiences. 
Her  supreme  beauty  had  shut  all  doors  but  one  to  her. 
Fear,  jealousy,  envy  and  anger  had  thrust  out  their 
hard,  selfish  hands  and  had  slammed  the  other  doors 
in  her  beautiful  face.  And  that  one  door  had  not  even 
a  latch  which  needed  lifting.  It  flung  wide  at  a  touch. 
And  if  in  those  days  —  before  she  had  entered  the  for- 
bidden land  —  how  much  more  now,  when  she  had 
long  been  a  dweller  therein,  were  the  doors  of  virtue 
and  repute  locked  fast  upon  her? 

Pitifully  she  remembered  the  Duke,  who  had  wor- 
shipped at  the  little  blue-veined  feet  within  her  patent 
leather  shoes.  So  had  he  sheltered  and  made  a  fine 
nest  for  her  that  she  had  forgotten  the  world  of  labour 
which  is  paved  with  flint  stones.  Almost  angrily  she 
hoped  that  where  he  was  he  would  be  hurt  by  knowing 
the  hardships  through  which  she  was  passing.  Miser- 
ably she  realised  that  there  was  but  one  way  left  to 
her  of  life  —  if  she  would  keep  her  jewels. 

At  such  a  psychological  crisis  in  a  woman's  career 
is  the  man  ever  missing  ?  At  this  crisis  in  hers,  as  she 
sat  on  the  bench  in  the  Park,  spent  and  dejected  of 


Defeat  293 

body  and  of  will,  afraid  and  desperate,  a  man  stopped 
before  her,  raising  his  hat. 

"  Is  it  possible  it  can  be  you,  Emmy?  "  he  inquired 
in  French. 

She  glanced  up  and  recognised  him. 

"  Yes,  it's  me  right  enough,"  she  returned  dully, 
relapsing  into  the  mode  of  speech  which  had  been  hers 
at  that  period  of  her  existence  at  which  she  had  known 
him. 

"  After  all  these  years,"  he  said. 

His  keen  eyes  were  scanning  her  from  head  to  foot. 
They  halted,  puzzled,  on  the  bonnet.  They  found  her 
little  pointed  patent  leather  feet.  He  dropped  beside 
her  on  the  bench. 

"  So  Saxby's  dead,"  he  said.  "  Left  you  a  fortune, 
eh?" 

"  Not  a  penny,"  she  replied  sullenly. 

"  Ah !  "  he  said.  Again  his  eyes  went  over  her. 
Despite  her  garb,  her  fatigue  and  her  dejection,  he 
knew  no  woman  who  was  a  patch  upon  her. 

"  Come  and  have  some  tea,"  he  said  presently. 
"  You  look  tired." 

She  went.  With  a  swelling  heart.  She  had  always 
hated  him.  And  she  had  been  so  fond  of  George. 

So  the  one  day  of  supreme  aspiration  in  her  life 
turned  out  a  brief,  weak  day  of  wretched  failure.  Had 
any  kind  eye  seen  into  her  childish  mind,  any  kind 
hand  stretched  itself  helpfully  out  to  her,  who  knows 
but  that  she  might  not  have  found  strength  to  regen- 
erate her  nature  ?  Yet  the  laws  of  God  are  inscrutable. 
His  mills  grind  exceeding  small.  The  evening  of  the 
best  day  of  her  weak  life  plunged  her  into  the  worst. 
It  found  her  no  longer  in  her  bonnet  and  maid's  gown, 
but  in  a  smart  dinner-dress  of  handsome  make,  al- 
though (because  it  had  been  bought  ready-made)  there 
were  creases  in  it  which  sorely  vexed  her.  It  found 
her  dining  with  her  newly-found  -old  friend,  striving 
her  hardest  to  make  venal  smiles  and  gaiety  out  of 


294  The  Whips  of  Time 

her  share  of  a  bottle  of  the  best  champagne  the  Hotel 
Ritz  afforded. 

For  she  had  been  fond  of  the  Duke,  who  had  left 
her  destitute. 


CHAPTER    XXXIII 

JOAN    AND   MARK 

LOWOOD  returned  from  Moonbank  with  a  grave  face. 
He  knew,  although  Alma  did  not,  the  meaning  of  the 
news  she  had  conveyed  to  him. 

The  previous  morning  auntie  had  gone  to  town,  and 
in  the  evening  a  telegram  had  come  from  her  explain- 
ing that  she  had  met  some  old  friends  and  was  going 
with  them  for  a  visit  to  Paris.  She  would  write  from 
there.  Alma  had  been  pleased.  Poor  auntie !  she  said. 
It  would  be  a  nice  change  for  her  and  would  distract 
her  thoughts.  She  was  evidently  to  stay  for  some 
length  of  time  as  she  had  asked  that  her  maid  and 
Janita  should  be  sent  to  her. 

For  her  own  part,  Alma  had  said,  it  would  leave 
her  more  ffee  to  get  over  the  beginning  of  her  book. 
She  had  found  the  beginning  a  sad  difficulty.  Once 
make  a  satisfactory  start  and  no  doubt  she  would  get 
on  apace. 

Lowood  had  left  her  to  make  the  start  and  had 
walked  home  dejected.  That  bad  devil!  Not  only 
the  best  tunes  but  the  lion's  share  of  the  beauty !  His 
poor  Aphrodite!  How  heavily  handicapped  she  had 
been  for  the  race  of  civilised  life,  whom  Nature 
had  so  bountifully  equipped.  He  wondered  dismally 
whether  he  could  not  himself  have  done  something 
better  than  this  for  her. 

Near  to  Mowbreck  he  came  upon  Joan.  It  was  the 
third  morning  he  had  overtaken  her  loitering  there. 
That  leaden  look  was  on  her.  Her  eyes  were  dull. 

Despite  her  preoccupation  she  coloured  at  his  ap- 


296  The  Whips  of  Time 

proach.  It  was  her  custom  to  take  bulls  by  the  horns. 
So  now  she  took  meek  Lowood.  She  did  not  offer 
her  hand  to  him  in  conventional  greeting.  She  stood 
before  him  with  a  sulky  air.  Then  she  said : 

"  I  never  tell  lies  to  you,  Dr.  Lowood,  because  you 
are  too  clever  to  believe  them.  You  always  know 
what  one  means  before  one  has  had  time  to  say  it. 
You  know  of  course  I  am  waiting  to  see  Mark  Hes- 
troyde." 

"  How  could  I  suppose  you  would  do  so  unwise  and 
so  unkind  a  thing,  Mrs.  Hummerstone?  "  he  rebuked 
her.  "  You  can  only  pain  him." 

She  uttered  a  hard  little  laugh. 

"  Oh,  rubbish !  "  she  said,  "  you  are  too  tragic. 
These  things  don't  hurt  very  much  —  once  they  are 
over.  But  he  avoids  me.  I  have  never  set  eyes  on 
him  since  I  came  back.  It's  all  rot  —  absurd.  We 
can't  go  on  playing  the  little  old  man  and  his  wife 
on  a  horsehair  for  the  rest  of  our  lives.  When  he 
comes  out  I  go  in,  and  when  I  go  in  he  comes  out.  It 
is  too  impossible.  I  believe  in  having  things  out.  I'm 
going  to  have  things  out  with  him.  I  played  him 
what  he  believes  was  a  rotten,  mean  trick.  I  am  will- 
ing to  apologise.  And  then  we  can  settle  out  again 
into  jog-trot  friends.  But  I  won't  stand  all  this  avoid- 
ance business.  It  gets  on  my  nerves  horribly.  I  must 
settle  it  one  way  or  —  " 

They  were  in  sight  of  the  lodge.  As  they  were 
standing  her  face  was  turned  to  it,  Lowood's  in  the 
opposite  direction. 

Suddenly  every  trace  of  colour  left  her.  Even  her 
lips  paled.  Her  dull  eyes  lighted.  She  broke  off  short. 
Then  she  said  through  her  teeth : 

"  Please  go  on.    He  is  here." 

Lowood  lifted  his  hat  and  went  on  down  the  road. 
But  at  the  first  bend  he  stood  waiting,  his  head  crooked 
forward,  every  cell  in  his  brain  straining  to  his  ears. 
For  he  remembered  that  she  had  done  this  man  an 


Joan  and  Mark  297 

irreparable  wrong,  that  she  was  on  her  way  alone 
to  meet  him,  and  —  that  he  was  Sarah  Munnings' 
son. 

She  stood  waiting  in  the  road,  her  breath  coming 
fast,  a  hard  smile  on  her  mouth.  She  saw  from  his 
stiffened  neck  and  from  his  eyes  directed  above  her 
head  that  he  was  intending  to  pass  her  without  recog- 
nition. The  iron-bound  scorn  of  his  eyes  and  face 
appalled  her.  Intolerant  and  difficult-tempered  as  he 
had  always  been  he  had  been  amenable  to  her.  She 
saw  now  that  she  might  as  well  seek  to  coax  marble  as 
appeal  to  him. 

There  are  women  who  until  they  have  lost  him  do 
not  realise  all  that  a  man  has  meant  to  them.  When 
they  have  lost  him  they  know  that  they  have  not  only 
lost,  but  that  some  other  woman  will  find  him. 

Joan,  despite  the  green  eyes  which  are  breeding- 
pools  for  jealous  thoughts,  had  never  experienced  the 
slightest  jealousy  of  Hestroyde.  Since  they  had  been 
boy  and  girl  he  had  been  her  romantic  slave.  She  had 
never  seen  him  make  love  to  any  other  girl.  Of  a 
one-ideaed  nature,  she  had  been  always  his  dominating 
thought.  But  she  saw  now  that  she  no  longer  domi- 
nated him,  that  he  had  effectually  cast  her  out. 

A  sudden  desperation  seized  her.  Before  she  knew 
what  she  was  doing  she  had  moved  in  front  of  him 
and  had  caught  hold  of  one  of  his  arms. 

"  You  shall  not  pass  me,'*  she  cried  vehemently. 
"  Mark,  I  will  have  it  out  with  you.  I  admit  I  seem 
to  have  behaved  shamefully.  But  you  don't  know  all. 
If  you  knew  all  you  would  understand,  and  —  and  be 
sorry  for  me." 

He  could  not  without  violence  release  himself.  He 
eyed  her  stonily. 

"  Let  go  my  arm,"  he  insisted,  "  I  have  nothing  to 
say  to  you." 

"  But  you  shall  say  something,"  she  cried  master- 
fully. "  Or  at  all  events  you  shall  listen.  You  return 


298  The  Whips  of  Time 

my  letters  unopened.  You  avoid  me.  You  treat  me 
like  a  dog.  You  shall  hear  that  I  don't  deserve  it,  that 
there  was  a  reason  for  what  I  did,  that  there  was 
nothing  else  left  for  me  to  do." 

"  Kindly  loose  my  arm,"  he  insisted  again  arro- 
gantly. "  We  can't  fight  in  the  open  road." 

"  You  shan't  go  without  breaking  my  hands.  You 
shall  hear  me.  It  was  for  your  sake  more  than  for 
my  own  that  I  did  what  I  did.  I  made  a  terrible 
discovery  that  meant  shame  to  me  and  to  you.  I 
married  him  to  prevent  it  coming  out,  to  keep  us  both 
from  being  overwhelmed  with  horrible  shame.  I 
wonder  it  didn't  kill  me.  And  you  think  it  was  a 
mere  caprice,  that  - 

A  long  time  had  elapsed  since  she  had  seen  him. 
Her  eyes  dwelled  hungrily  upon  his  handsome,  scorn- 
ful face,  his  insolent  eyes,  his  supple  figure. 

"  Oh,  do  you  think  —  ?  "  she  broke  out  vehemently 
and  stopped. 

He  stood  unmoved  as  a  rock. 

"Why  be  melodramatic?"  he  returned  with  flick- 
ing scorn.  "  I  have  asked  no  explanation.  You  pre- 
ferred your  sandy  outsider.  Well,  you  have  got  him." 

She  writhed  beneath  his  light  contempt. 

"  Oh,  if  I  were  to  tell  you  the  truth  —  the  truth," 
she  ground  out  between  her  teeth. 

"  It  would  be  quite  unconvincing,"  he  said,  "  coming 
from  you.  Now  will  you  kindly  loose  my  arm  ?  " 

She  pushed  it  from  her  in  a  rage. 

In  a  moment  he  began  to  walk  away,  leaving  her 
with  as  much  unconcern  as  though  she  had  been  some 
beggar  he  had  considered  unworthy  of  coppers. 

She  stood  looking  after  him.  She  watched  him  out 
of  sight,  his  light  gait  giving  him  an  air  of  careless- 
ness he  probably  did  not  feel.  She  watched  the  charm 
and  handsomeness  which  had  so  long  been  subject  to 
her,  withdrawing  for  ever  from  her  life.  She  knew 
now  that  she  had  irretrievably  lost  him. 


Joan  and  Mark  299 

Her  whole  aspect  changed.  There  was  a  sudden 
precipitation  into  actuality  of  all  those  differences  in 
her  which  had  hitherto  been  mere  suggestions.  The 
dulness  shut  down  upon  her  eyes,  no  longer  a  fleeting 
expression  but  a  physical  fact.  From  being  green 
pools  rippling  with  life  and  light  they  became  lustreless 
and  dark,  suggesting  stagnancy.  The  leaden  hue  Lo- 
wood  had  observed  marring  her  clear  reds  and  whites 
all  of  a  sudden  became  indelible.  It  was  as  though 
dust  had  been  stirred  into  her  blood,  as  though  some 
malign  influence,  a  physical  blight,  a  grave  moral 
deterioration,  had  stricken  her  within  the  space  of 
minutes. 

"  I  say,"  Hummerstone  said,  eyeing  her  with  an 
unflattering  regard  as  he  met  her  crossing  the  hall, 
"  what's  come  over  your  looks,  Jonah  ?  Before  I 
married  you,  you  had  such  a  stunning  complexion. 
Get  Burnham  to  give  you  something  for  it.  Perhaps 
your  liver's  out  of  order." 

She  sent  him  one  slow  glance  out  of  her  dulled  eyes. 
He  felt  a  little  chill  run  up  and  down  his  spine.  He 
slunk  away  through  the  first  door  he  found  open.  He 
sank  into  a  chair  and  wiped  his  face.  He  remembered 
how  she  had  once  bitten  his  thumb  to  the  bone.  He 
had  never  seen  anybody,  man  or  woman,  look  as  she 
had  looked  at  him.  He  lit  a  cigar  and  went  into  the 
grounds.  He  wanted  to  consider  what  she  had  meant 
by  looking  at  him  like  that. 

Joan  was  proud  of  her  gardens.  She  spared  no 
expense  upon  them.  He  found  half  a  dozen  men 
busily  engaged  in  bedding  out  choice  annuals  in  the 
borders  round  the  house.  They  touched  their  caps 
obsequiously.  Their  servility,  flattering  his  small  soul, 
restored  his  self-assurance.  After  all,  he  was  the 
master  of  the  house.  True,  and  everybody  knew  it, 
it  was  Joan's  house  and  Joan's  money.  But  a  man 
was  his  wife's  master,  therefore  the  master  of  all  that 


300  The  Whips  of  Time 

was  hers.  There  were  other  facts  too,  which  made 
her  still  more  vassal  to  him. 

'He  stopped  to  watch  their  work.  Then  to  reinstate 
himself  in  his  opinion  and  to  raise  himself  in  theirs 
he  directed  them  to  do  it  differently.  The  head- 
gardener,  who  was  overlooking  them,  objected,  in  the 
surly  fashion  of  head-gardeners,  that  the  borders  had 
always  been  arranged  as  they  were  doing  them.  He 
added  that  Mrs.  Hummerstone  had  expressly  said  that 
they  were  to  be  so  arranged. 

"  Look  here,"  Hummerstone  said  rudely,  "  you  just 
do  what  I  tell  you  and  don't  talk  so  much." 

By  the  time  he  had  seen  the  half-dozen  men  labori- 
ously undoing  that  which  they  had  spent  a  whole 
morning  in  doing,  his  equanimity  was  quite  restored. 
He  determined  to  give  Joan  a  lesson.  He  was  not 
going  to  be  looked  at  as  she  had  looked  at  him. 

He  went  into  the  house.  She  was  sitting  in  a  room 
which  opened  off  the  hall.  She  seemed  to  be  thinking. 
She  still  wore  her  hat  and  coat.  Her  gloved  hands 
were  twisting  restlessly  one  with  another  in  outward 
token  of  some  inner  conflict.  She  was  staring  dully 
through  a  window.  She  did  not  turn  her  head.  One 
might  have  supposed  she  had  not  heard  him  enter. 

"  I  say !  "  he  said  loudly,  in  order  to  attract  her 
attention. 

He  failed  to  attract  it,  however.  She  still  stared 
out  through  the  window.  He  went  up  to  her,  and 
catching  her  by  a  shoulder  shook  her  slightly. 

"  I  say,"  he  said  again,  "  I  want  to  tell  you  some- 
thing. You  seem  to  be  wool-gathering." 

She  brought  her  eyes  slowly  about  with  that  new 
languor  which  had  come  to  her.  They  met  his,  dull 
and  sullen.  But  the  look  he  had  objected  to  was  gone. 

"  I  think  you  might  have  the  decency,"  he  blustered, 
"  to  consult  me  about  the  garden.  I  have  to  see  it  as 
much  as  you  do.  I  found  those  idiots  putting  those 
what-dye-call-'ems  inside  the  thingy-me-jigs  instead  of 


Joan  and  Mark  301 

outside.  I  pretty  soon  told  them  to  put  'em  outside. 
Parsons  had  the  cheek  to  tell  me  you  ordered  them 
inside.  Well,  I  like  them  better  outside.  You  under- 
stand? I  like  them  better  outside.  And  so  they're 
changing  them." 

"  Are  they  ?  "  she  said.  Her  wits,  like  her  eyes, 
seemed  oddly  dull  that  morning.  It  took  her  some 
time  to  realise  his  meaning.  Then  he  supposed  that 
she  realised  it,  for  she  kept  her  eyes  upon  him  and 
smiled  slowly.  The  look  he  had  objected  to  was  still 
absent.  But  as  he  quitted  the  room,  with  a  return  of 
his  uncomfortable  sensations,  he  was  not  sure  that  he 
liked  her  smile  better  than  he  had  liked  her  look. 


CHAPTER    XXXIV 

A    LETTER    FROM    UNCLE    TONY 

ALMA  came  down  to  breakfast  with  an  attack  of  her 
old  mental  fever.  The  business  of  writing  a  book,  the 
necessities  which  spurred  the  writing  of  a  book,  had 
for  three  days  banished  the  wearying  boredom  of  life 
without  Burghwallis,  had  banished  the  uncontrollable 
yearning  to  see  him  again  which  of  late  had  possessed 
her.  For  three  days  of  literary  travail  had  given  her 
an  inkling  of  the  truth  that  the  writing  of  a  book  is  a 
jealous  task,  and  one  which  demands  undivided  atten- 
tion and  interests. 

So  far  she  had  contributed  nothing  to  her  task 
beyond  a  dozen  daily  sheets  of  scribbled  foolscap, 
which  before  night  she  had  diligently  torn  to  shreds, 
in  sensitive  shame  lest  anyone  might  read  a  sentence 
of  the  incompetent  rubbish  into  which  her  teeming, 
glowing  thoughts  had  translated  themselves.  They 
reminded  her  of  the  white-hot,  brilliant  showers  she 
had  seen  struck  off  on  a  blacksmith's  anvil,  which  when 
picked  up  later  were  but  dull  and  worthless  fragments. 

But  that  morning  waking  early  her  brain  had  been 
filled  with  that  which  seemed  to  her  to  be  a  superfine 
plot  for  a  novel.  And  she  came  down  to  breakfast 
eager  to 'commit  it  to  paper. 

She  found  on  the  table  two  letters,  both  bearing 
foreign  stamps  and  post-marks.  As  a  child  she  had 
always  saved  the  best  thing  —  her  nicest  sweet,  the 
almond  icing  of  her  cake  —  to  the  last.  So  now  she 
opened  first  the  envelope  addressed  in  Mrs.  Beau- 
mont's hand, 


A  Letter  from  Uncle  Tony  303 

Only  a  practised  writer  is  able  to  shelve  the  moving 
circumstances  of  his  own  personal  life  for  the  moving 
circumstances  of  the  lives  of  his  persons  of  fiction. 
By  the  time  she  had  read  Mrs.  Beaumont's  letter 
Alma's  impressionable  brain  had  not  a  plot  or  a  spark 
left  in  it.  It  was  dull,  black  misery,  lit  by  a  flare  of 
shame. 

For  Mrs.  Beaumont,  aware  that  her  path  and 
Alma's  had  now  parted,  and  emboldened  by  distance, 
had  at  last  confessed  the  truth  to  her.  She  was  no 
mistress  of  the  art  of  writing.  And  stated  baldly  as 
she  stated  it,  the  truth  did  not  make  pretty  reading. 
She  blamed  Alma  rather  peevishly  for  being  so  foolish 
as  to  believe  that  she  had  been  George's  wife.  If  she 
had  been  his  wife  she  would  have  been  a  Duchess  and 
there  would  of  course  have  been  a  jointure  for  her. 
In  the  long  run  wives  always  got  the  best  of  it. 

Alma  caught  suddenly  at  a  corner  of  the  table  in 
order  to  steady  herself  in  a  world  which  rocked.  The 
room  rang  with  shouts  of  shame.  To  her  inexperience 
the  situation  was  a  pillory  upon  which  all  eyes  were 
turned,  a  brazen  circumstance  which  scandalised  the 
world.  Her  eyes  drooped,  her  face  became  a  hot  flame, 
feeling  herself  in  that  pillory. 

Then  with  a  little  gasping  cry  she  lifted  her  hands 
and  prayed  to  Heaven  that  the  breakfast-room  floor 
might  open  and  swallow  up  her  and  her  shame  in  a 
bottomless  abyss.  For  Burghwallis  knew.  He  knew 
and  had  all  along  known.  And  she  was  her  aunt's 
niece,  had  lived  with  her,  and  had  shared  with  her 
the  home  and  luxury  which  had  been  the  price  of  her 
dishonour.  Her  face  flamed  red  again  as  a  rush  of 
recollections  fed  her  mind  with  new  fuel  for  mortifi- 
cation. A  number  of  things  were  all  at  once  explained. 
She  understood  now  the  embarrassments  of  his  return, 
his  inexplicable  irritations  and  hauteur. 

An  hour  passed.  The  table  had  been  cleared.  Her 
cup  of  coffee  had  been  sent  away  untasted.  Upstairs 


304  The  Whips  of  Time 

lay  her  blank,  inviting  sheets  of  foolscap  and  a  new 
pen.  Yet  still  she  sat,  with  Mrs.  Beaumont's  well-read 
letter  in  her  pocket  and  with  the  other  unopened  letter 
in  her  hand.  How  could  she  open  it?  How  could  she 
read  her  humiliation  stated  in  his  words?  Would  he 
bid  her  take  up  her  shamed  life  and  go  about  her 
business?  Would  he  tell  her  that  the  discreditable 
bond  being  now  at  an  end,  she  had  no  further  claim 
upon  his  friendship  or  his  courtesy  ?  Her  heart  hard- 
ened against  him.  He  had  known,  and  had  known 
that  she  was  ignorant,  and  yet  had  not  warned  her.  If 
he  had  had  the  consideration  of  a  true  friend,  would 
he  not  have  told  the  truth  to  her  in  order  that  she 
might  have  extricated  herself  from  so  dishonourable 
a  situation? 

She  found  courage  presently  to  read  the  letter, 
although  in  opening  the  envelope  she  was  impressed 
by  the  sense  that  her  life's  castle  would  come  hurtling 
about  her  ears.  She  broke  into  tears,  a  shower  as 
sweet  and  as  warm  and  as  fragrantly  refreshing  as 
is  April  rain.  She  kissed  every  word  of  his  brief  note. 
A  dozen  times  she  kissed  his  name. 

Oh !  base  ingratitude  of  a  minute  earlier !  Oh ! 
base  mistrust  of  a  true  and  chivalrous  gentleman, 
whom  she  had  ever  known  true  and  chivalrous.  Base 
wrong  to  Heaven  and  the  High  Powers  which  had 
made  of  life  a  path  of  happiness  beneath  the  sacred 
shining  of  the  sun  of  true  affection!  He  knew  her 
ignorant  of  the  wrong,  knew  her  innocent.  He  was 
clever  enough  not  to  blame  her  for  that  which  was 
none  of  her  fault,  chivalrous  enough  not  to  think  less 
of  her  for  the  accidental  conditions  under  which  he 
had  found  her,  brave  enough  to  remain  her  friend  in 
the  face  of  a  scandalised  world! 

All  this  of  course  he  did  not  say.  He  was  a  man 
of  few  words.  But  were  actions  not  greater  than 
words?  And  he  was  coming  at  once.  He  wrote  that 
he  had  just  received  the  bad  news.  He  had  taken  a 


A  Letter  from  Uncle  Tony  305 

passage  in  the  next  home-going  steamer  and  would 
be  with  her  almost  as  soon  as  his  letter.  He  had 
cabled  to  his  lawyer  that  she  and  Mrs.  Beaumont  were 
to  remain  on  at  Moonbank.  She  was  not  to  feel  one 
care  or  anxiety.  She  was  in  his  keeping.  He  signed 
himself  "  ever  her  friend."  A  dozen  times  she  kissed 
the  Tony  under  it.  It  was  the  sweetest,  finest,  funni- 
est name  in  the  world. 

She  forgot  her  shame.  What  was  shame  if  she  were 
not  shamed  in  his  eyes?  Who  cared  for  the  stupid 
world?  She  forgot  her  book,  her  plots,  her  waiting 
paper  and  her  new  pen.  What  were  paper  plots  and 
stories?  She  had  a  story  of  her  own,  a  real  story 
which  transformed  the  daisies  into  great  white  roses, 
made  every  finch  a  nightingale,  turned  a  slate  sky  into 
a  sapphire  heaven,  a  sulky  sun  into  a  glory. 

For  despite  the  difficulties  besetting  her  literary 
beginnings,  she  was  blessed  (or  cursed)  with  the  tem- 
perament of  the  writer,  a  temperament  which  is  a 
diamond  prism  showing  the  rainbow-wonders  hid  in 
common  life.  Such  a  temperament  is  given  that  its 
possessor  may  reveal  the  rainbow-wonders  to  those 
who  have  no  gift  to  see  them.  But  when  the  artist 
or  writer  uses  his  prism  to  show  him  the  rainbow- 
wonders  of  his  own  personal  emotions,  he  must  not 
complain  if  the  joys  and  pains  revealed  are  rather  too 
exquisitely  poignant  for  comfort. 


CHAPTER    XXXV 

PROFESSOR    HUMMERSTONE 

LOWOOD,  calling-  at  The  Folly,  was  told  that  Mrs. 
Hummerstone  had  been  away,  that  she  was  every 
minute  expected  back,  and  that  Lady  Kesteven  would 
be  pleased  to  see  him.  Lady  Kesteven  had  taken  a 
liking  to  him.  He  possessed  the  restorative  and  sooth- 
ing presence  of  the  true  physician,  which  calmed  and 
repolarised  deranged  nerve-currents. 

She  raised  herself  upon  an  elbow  of  her  couch  to 
welcome  him. 

"  Joan  and  Cyril  are  overdue,"  she  told  him. 
"  They  have  been  on  a  visit  to  Professor  Hummer- 
stone.  You  know  Professor  Hummerstone,  I  believe." 

Of  her  views  upon  Joan's  change  of  bridegrooms 
she  had  kept  her  own  counsel.  Her  oldest  friends  had 
failed  to  extract  from  her  a  word  of  comment. 

"  It  is  Joan's  own  affair,"  she  had  insisted  from 
behind  her  shield  of  reserve. 

But  all  had  seen  from  her  altered  looks  that  the 
shock  had  been  great.  And  Lowood,  having-  seen 
them  once  together,  was  aware  that  she  needed  all  her 
control  to  enable  her  to  tolerate  Hummerstone.  She 
had  been  sufficiently  disappointed  when  Joan  chose 
Hestroyde  in  the  place  of  Legh.  But  Hestroyde  was 
infinitely  preferable  to  Hummerstone. 

Lowood  replied  to  her  question  that  he  and  the 
physiologist  had  been  fellow-students. 

To  his  surprise  she  told  him  that  the  elder  Hum- 
merstone would  accompany  his  son  and  Joan  on  this 
occasion. 


Professor  Hummerstone  307 

"  Is  Cyril  like  him?  "  she  asked. 

"  As  unlike  as  two  men  can  be." 

A  few  minutes  later  the  two  entered.  Lowood 
glanced  with  interest  at  his  old  chum.  He  was  little 
changed.  There  were  the  same  cold,  fresh  complexion, 
the  same  blue  shallow  eye,  the  same  flat  voice.  It  is 
the  emotions  which  change,  and  Hummerstone  was 
not  troubled  by  emotions.  He  had  that  semblance  of 
refinement  which  sometimes  comes  from  the  substitu- 
tion of  wholly  intellectual  for  human  pursuits. 

"Ah,  Lowood."  he  said,  "you  here?"  without 
cordiality  or  surprise,  but  as  though  they  had  parted 
an  hour  earlier. 

With  difficulty,  for  he  spent  all  his  days  in  labora- 
tories, he  manufactured  some  conventional  remarks  for 
Lady  Kesteven.  He  regretted  that  he  could  stop  no 
longer  than  one  night.  He  was  on  his  way  to  a  Berlin 
Congress  of  Physiologists.  He  thought  Cyril  looking 
well.  It  was  a  disappointment  to  him  that  his  son  had 
given  up  his  work. 

Cyril,  overhearing,  laughed  coarsely. 

"  It  wasn't  good  enough,"  he  said.  "  No  more 
tadpole  tails  for  me,  Guv.  You  bet  I  knew  what  I 
was  about  when  I  took  Joan  instead." 

Lowood  observed  that  his  demeanour  toward  her 
had  changed.  Where  before  he  had  shown  self-con- 
fident and  overbearing,  now  there  was  a  shade  of 
uneasiness,  even  of  conciliation,  in  his  treatment  of 
her.  Lowood  found  something  odd  too  in  the  elder 
Hummerstone's  attitude  to  her.  He  seemed  to  ignore 
her,  never  once  looking  directly  at  nor  addressing  her. 
And  yet  he  was  profoundly  and  uncomfortably  con- 
scious of  her.  While  he  laboured  out  his  common- 
places to  her  mother  or  talked  with  Lowood,  his 
attention  was  all  the  while  engrossed  by  her.  He 
strained  his  ears  to  catch  what  she  said.  He  watched 
her  from  the  corners  of  his  eyes.  The  whole  time  an 
undercurrent  of  his  attention  was  nervously  diverted 


308  The  Whips  of  Time 

to  her.  Lowood  gathered  that  for  some  reason  or 
another  he  disliked  or  disapproved  of  her.  He  attrib- 
uted his  feeling  to  the  fact  that  she  had  come  between 
him  and  Cyril,  had  frustrated  effectually  his  last  hopes 
and  ambitions  for  his  son. 

Cyril's  underbred,  covert  allusions  to  his  new  pros- 
perity, his  attempts  to  impress  his  father  by  the  hand- 
some house  and  its  costly  equipments,  the  grounds 
and  the  luxurious  house,  failed  of  their  intention. 
With  all  his  faults,  Hummerstone  senior  cared  little 
for  money  or  for  ostentation.  He  would  have  thought 
more  highly  of  his  son  as  a  poor  but  zealous  scientist 
than  he  thought  of  him  as  the  master  of  a  handsome 
house  and  the  husband  of  an  heiress. 

"  Joan  and  the  guv.  were  inseparables,"  Cyril  said, 
still  with  that  air  of  desiring  to  flatter  her.  "  She 
showed  quite  a  turn  for  science.  I  couldn't  keep  her 
out  of  the  laboratory.  She  was  all  the  while  peering 
into  bottles  and  dipping  her  ringers  into  drugs  and 
chemicals.  Pity  she  wasn't  the  guv/s  daughter.  He 
might  have  made  a  professor  of  her." 

She  turned  her  green  eyes  slowly  toward  him.  She 
said,  in  a  slow,  quiet  voice : 

"  The  poisons  were  so  fascinating.  Some  of  them 
were  simple  white  powders,  as  harmless-looking  as 
sugar.  And  yet  he  said  that  just  a  few  crystals  would 
kill  a  person,  would  put  him  into  horrible  pain  and 
convulsions,  or  would  kill  him  quite  quietly.  It  seems 
such  a  power  for  one  person's  life  to  depend  on 
whether  another  does  or  does  not  put  a  few  crystals 
of  simple  white  powder  in  their  food." 

Lowood,  standing  by  the  elder  Hummerstone,  de- 
tected a  momentary  oscillation  of  his  cold  eyelids,  saw 
that  although  his  back  was  turned  to  her  he  seemed 
to  be  hanging  breathless  upon  every  word. 

"  Joan,"  Lady  Kesteven  protested,  "  don't  talk  so. 
To  me  poisons  are  detestable.  I  cannot  understand 
why  God  has  allowed  such  things  to  be." 


Professor  Hummerstone  309 

"  But  you  see,"  Joan  replied  in  the  same  slow 
fashion,  "  you  and  I  are  not  at  all  alike.  Seeing  us 
together  nobody  would  suppose  that  we  were  mother 
and  daughter." 

Again  that  oscillation  of  Hummerstone's  cold  lids. 
Again  he  seemed  to  hang  upon  her  words.  Lowood 
surmised  that  he  was  doing  his  utmost  to  gain  some 
inkling  of  his  daughter-in-law's  character,  a  character 
which  was  doubtless  a  sealed  book  to  him. 

He  found  himself  addressed. 

"  Dr.  Lowood  is  great  on  heredity,"  she  went  on  in 
a  bantering  tone.  "  Perhaps  he  can  tell  us  why  I  am 
not  in  the  least  like  my  mother  in  face  or  in  character. 
She  is  too  good  for  words.  I  can't  be  said  to  be 
afflicted  with  virtues.  She  has  brown  eyes.  I  have 
green.  She  is  dark.  I  am  flaxen.  Come  now,  Dr. 
Lowood,  unriddle  this  riddle  for  us.  Why  am  I  so 
absolutely  different  from  my  mother  ?  " 

The  day  was  cool.  The  elder  Hummerstone  im- 
pressed one  as  a  man  who  on  the  hottest  day  of  August 
might  serve  to  chill  a  room.  Yet  he  suddenly  took 
out  his  handkerchief,  and  with  a  curious  sigh  of  dis- 
tress trailed  it  across  his  brows  and  mouth. 

"  Good  Lord,  Joan,  drop  it !  "  Cyril  broke  out  irri- 
tably. "  Heaps  of  persons  are  not  a  bit  like  their 
parents.  Look  at  me  and  the  guv.  Who'd  think  from 
looking  at  us  that  I  am  his  son  ?  " 

"  I  have  never  believed  in  heredity,"  his  father 
stated  succinctly,  half  turning  his  head  and  eyes  toward, 
but  turning  them  back  before  they  were  in  line  with 
her.  "  I  think  it  has  never  been  scientifically  proven 
that  there  is  anything  in  the  doctrine  of  hereditary 
transmission." 

"  But  I  was  asking  Dr.  Lowood,"  Joan  returned. 
"  I  am  sure  Dr.  Lowood  will  tell  us  that  people  do 
inherit  their  parents'  qualities.  I  know  he  believes 
*  like  mother,  like  daughter.' ' 

Lowood  saw  that  the  subject  was  profoundly  dis- 


310  The  Whips  of  Time 

tasteful.  He  knew  a  reason  why  it  should  be  distaste- 
ful to  the  elder  Hummerstone.  But  he  was  surprised 
to  find  his  old  friend's  conscience  so  uneasy  upon  this 
subject  against  which  his  daughter-in-law  had  stum- 
bled. He  rose  smiling. 

"  Another  time,"  he  said.  "  It  is  too  complex  a 
matter  to  settle  in  a  minute.  And  I  must  be  off." 

"  Yes,  hang  it  all,"  Cyril  said,  with  an  air  of  relief. 
"  Who  wants  to  talk  problems  at  afternoon  calls  ?  " 

"  I'll  walk  part  of  the  way  with  you,"  Hummerstone 
said  quickly. 

Lowood,  more  punctilious  than  he  as  to  the  treat- 
ment of  a  hostess,  answered  : 

"  Do,  if  Lady  Kesteven  will  forgive  me  for  running 
away  with  her  guest." 

Outside  the  house  Hummerstone  once  more  wiped 
his  brows  and  mouth. 

"  I  don't  like  that  woman,"  he  broke  out  with  a 
candour  and  an  energy  strange  to  him. 

"Lady  Kesteven?"* 

"  No,  Cyril's  wife.    He  was  a  fool  to  marry  her." 

"  Joan !  "  Lowood  repeated,  surprised.  "  I  don't 
agree  with  you.  She  is  a  healthy,  handsome  girl,  and 
a  great  heiress.  I  think  Cyril  has  done  far  better  than 
he  deserved." 

"  Handsome  ?  "  Hummerstone  echoed.  "  With  that 
expression  ?  " 

Then,  as  Lowood  said  nothing: 

"  Healthy  ?  "  he  repeated,  "  with  that  complexion  ?  " 

"  Her  complexion  is  naturally  milk  and  roses,"  Lo- 
wood defended  her.  "  But  she  seems  to  have  given 
up  her  outdoor  life.  No  doubt  she'll  get  back  her  milk 
and  roses  again." 

"  I  don't  like  her,"  Hummerstone  repeated  obsti- 
nately. "  Cyril  has  acted  like  a  fool." 

That  she  had  not  shown  to  advantage  upon  this 
occasion  Lowood  admitted.  There  had  been  an  under- 
current rancour  in  her  persistence  with  a  subject  which 


Professor  Hummerstone  311 

no  doubt  she  had  discovered  was  unpleasant  to  her 
father-in-law.  Marriage  with  Hummerstone  had  cer- 
tainly not  improved  her.  Each  time  he  saw  her  he 
found  her  changed  for  the  worse.  She  should  have 
married  Hestroyde.  Whatsoever  his  parentage  his 
influence  over  her  had  been  for  good. 


CHAPTER   XXXVI 

BURGH WALLIS    RETURNS 

ALMA  sat  in  alternations  of  ecstasy  and  of  anguish. 
Pain  is  the  obverse  of  joy,  and  according  to  the  poten- 
tiality for  joy  is  the  measure  of  possible  pain.  On 
the  other  side  of  a  great  happiness  is  a  great  heartache 
which  from  time  to  time  obtrudes  itself. 

Burgh  wallis  was  coming.  She  had  had  a  letter  from 
him  by  the  morning  post.  He  had  reached  England 
the  previous  day.  He  proposed  to  run  down  by  the 
ten  o'clock  train. 

Nature,  as  though  to  reward  her  for  her  past  love 
of  the  Great  Mother,  had  sent  her  a  delicious  day,  a 
day  set  and  gleaming  with  jewels  —  a  sapphire  sky, 
a  golden  sun,  an  emerald  earth,  topaz  and  opal  clouds, 
diamond  iridescent  light  —  a  day  which  had  lain  all 
night  in  a  dew-bath  and  had  emerged  radiant,  re- 
freshed, and  charged  with  loveliness  and  fragrance. 

Alma  did  not,  as  she  had  done  at  his  last  visit,  go 
down  the  drive  to  meet  him.  A  sweet  shame  withheld 
her.  That  had  been  before  he  had  kissed  her.  Since 
he  had  kissed  her,  Nature  (and  Mrs.  Beaumont)  had 
told  her  that  her  niecely  relation  to  him  was  a  fiction. 
She  sat  waiting  for  him  in  the  drawing-room,  her 
eyes  going  with  delicious  tremors  to  the  little  onyx 
clock,  the  clock  to  which  he  had  likened  himself,  an 
affair  of  machinery  which  did  that  only  which  its 
wheels  and  levers  obliged  it  to  do.  And  immediately 
afterwards  he  had  disproved  the  likeness  by  doing 
that  which  no  machinery  under  the  sun  could  have 
done. 


Burghwallis  Returns  313 

The  memory  of  it  sent  her  blood  warm  and  tingling 
to  her  lips.  Her  mouth  felt  to  her  like  a  sweet  red 
flower.  Her  breath  came  and  went  in  it  fresh  and 
fragrant.  She  had  never  before  understood  the  mean- 
ing of  herself.  He  was  the  supreme  reason  of  her. 
Then  there  came  the  old  familiar  thrill  of  panic,  the 
momentary  sense  that  in  a  long  and  long  ago  he  had 
done  some  injury  to  her,  an  injury  so  grave  that  the 
memory  of  it  had  lasted  into  another  life  and  yet  had 
not  lessened  her  love  for  him. 

By  the  time  the  door  opened  and  he  came  in  the 
fear  had  passed.  She  felt  nothing  but  joy.  But  the 
fear  still  showed  in  her  eyes,  a  haunted,  haunting 
expression.  He  saw  it.  It  showed  so  appealing,  so 
wistful,  so  profoundly  sad,  that,  knowing  his  own 
mind,  he  paused  in  the  act  of  taking  her  into  his  arms. 

The  masculine  creature  is  strangely  conventional. 
From  the  day  he  goes  to  school  his  main  ambition  is 
to  be  like  other  boys,  at  college  to  be  like  other  youths, 
later  in  the  world  to  be  like  other  members  of  his 
clubs.  To  succeed  in  this  ambition  it  is  necessary  for 
him  sturdily  to  repress  and  by  habit  to  efface  impulses 
and  aspirations  of  which  he  has  never  seen  any  indi- 
cation in  Jones  or  in  Robinson.  He  would  see  the 
absurdity  of  trying  to  reshape  his  features  or  to  dye 
his  hair  on  the  model  of  Jones  or  of  Robinson.  It 
is  only  moral  aspirations  or  emotional  impulses  which 
he  is  convinced  have  never  troubled  Jones  or  Robinson 
of  which  he  is  ashamed. 

Burghwallis  did  not  formulate  his  sense  that  Jones 
or  Robinson  would  laugh  in  the  smoking-room  at  a 
man  who  should  alter  his  code  of  ethics  for  no  sounder 
reason  than  a  wistful,  profoundly  appealing  look  in 
a  girl's  eyes.  Girls,  till  they  were  taught,  knew  little 
about  life.  But  it  would  be  monstrous  for  men  of  the 
world  to  reshape  their  lives  on  the  pattern  of  a  girl's 
notions  or  of  a  girl's  eyes. 

Accordingly,  having  hitherto  shaped  his  life  on  the 


314  The  Whips  of  Time 

pattern  of  the  lives  of  other  men,  Burghwallis  hesi- 
tated for  no  longer  than  a  moment.  Then  he  recov- 
ered himself.  Jones  and  Robinson  would  laugh  indeed 
at  a  man  who  should  be  deterred  by  anything  short 
of  an  earthquake  (or  a  scandal)  in  the  very  act  of 
kissing  lips  so  young  and  fresh  and  wholly  sweet  as 
were  those  upturned  to  him,  trembling  with  ecstasy. 
And  having  kissed  them  and  felt  her  tender  body 
yielding  to  him,  her  cool,  soft  cheek  against  his  virile 
one,  her  delicate  head  and  fragrant,  magnetic  hair  laid 
in  the  embracing  angle  of  his  throat  and  shoulder,  all 
her  sweet,  delicate  womanhood  streaming  to  him  in 
those  magical  wonders  and  confusions  with  which  an 
emotional  woman  yields  the  vials  of  her  honey-charged 
nature  for  the  man  she  loves  —  having  known  all  this 
there  was  no  going  back.  Now,  though  he  damn  his 
soul  to  all  eternity,  he  must  carry  this  thing  through. 

By  this  time  Jones  and  Robinson  were  forgotten  or 
he  would  not  thus  have  thought,  because,  so  far  as  he 
knew,  neither  Jones  nor  Robinson  believed  in  a  soul. 
For  Jones  and  Robinson  were,  like  all  men,  frauds  to 
one  another  —  and  carefully  concealed,  from  all  but 
some  woman  they  loved,  the  truth  that  they  were  bet- 
ter men  than  other  men  who  shaped  their  conduct  by 
their  code  suspected. 

Burghwallis,  by  this  time  embarked  on  a  storm  of 
passion,  was  prepared  to  employ  every  art  and  wile 
he  possessed  to  win  through.  He  did  not,  however, 
anticipate  difficulties.  Since  last  he  had  seen  her  she 
had  learned  several  things.  The  Duke's  death  would 
have  informed  her  of  her  aunt's  true  status  and  of  a 
fundamental  fact  of  life.  Her  aunt's  rapid  lapse  (for 
he  had  put,  of  course,  his  own  construction  upon 
Alma's  news  that  Mrs.  Beaumont  was  in  Paris)  would 
have  taught  her  other  fundamental  facts  of  life.  And 
then  there  was  her  unbefriended  and  penniless  state. 
In  a  practical  world  practical  facts  were  of  immense 
account  in  shaping  life  and  conduct. 


Burghwallis  Returns  315 

Yet  although  she  had  learned  these  all-important 
facts  she  did  not  seem  to  be  greatly  concerned  or 
embarrassed.  On  the  contrary,  she  had  gone  to  his 
arms  as  though  mutely  acquiescing  in  them.  Dear 
little  girl !  How  delicate  and  sweet  she  was.  In  her 
black  frock  she  looked  as  slender  and  as  pliant  as  a 
lily  on  its  stem.  She  was  more  than  beautiful.  Mrs. 
Beaumont  in  her  luxuriant  maturity  and  rich  perfec- 
tions was  amazingly  beautiful.  And  yet  he  had  never 
experienced  one  emotion  for  her.  It  was  not  the  face 
and  the  flesh,  but  the  person  behind  the  face  and  within 
the  flesh,  which  charmed.  Mrs.  Beaumont's  perfect 
hand,  which  the  great  artist  had  modelled,  had  never 
sent  a  thrill  through  him.  A  touch  of  Alma's  ringer, 
far  removed  though  it  were  from  perfection,  brewed 
a  storm  of  emotions  in  him  as  the  fine  electric  contact 
sets  the  elements  of  Nature  thundering  in  the  sky. 

His  heart  swelled.  So  help  him!  he  would  love 
and  cherish  her  as  the  apple  of  his  eye.  He  was  no 
light  lover.  There  was  not  a  light  nor  a  treacherous 
thought  in  him.  He  loved  her  sincerely,  profoundly. 
It  was  a  tie  which  might  bind  for  a  lifetime.  Such 
things,  although  rare,  had  been  and  were  possible  with 
a  woman  such  as  she.  The  thing  might  be  an  idyl. 
Life,  as  he  found  it,  was  a  good  deal  of  a  bore.  Here 
might  be  an  oasis,  a  rose-garden,  screened  from  all 
eyes,  unbelittled  by  conventions,  refined,  sweet,  intel- 
lectual, a  well-spring  of  delicious  happiness.  All  he 
could  give  to  her  he  would  give  —  home,  love,  luxury. 
He  knew  the  world.  Such  as  it  was  it  would  be  well 
lost  indeed  to  her  for  that  he  would  give  her  in  its 
stead. 

One  thing  his  fastidiousness  would  withhold. 
Lovely  though  it  was,  the  scene  of  their  idyl  should 
not  be  Moonbank.  As  their  idyl  should  be  unique, 
so  it  should  have  a  setting  untainted  by  associations. 

He  knew  of  course  that  if  he  had  been  a  Sir  Galahad 
he  would  have  set  her  to  learn  typewriting  or  would 


316  The  Whips  of  Time 

have  had  her  trained  to  some  or  another  art  or  pro- 
fession. He  might  even  have  settled  a  sum  of  money 
upon  her  and  have  bidden  her  a  chaste  and  last  good- 
bye. (It  was  abominable  of  George,  by  the  way,  to 
have  left  the  poor  women  unprovided  for!)  Unfor- 
tunately he  was  no  Sir  Galahad;  to  tell  the  truth,  the 
man  would  have  been  kicked  out  of  every  club  in 
London,  perpetually  treading,  as  he  would  have  done, 
on  Jones'  and  Robinson's  toes.  Besides,  to  leave  her 
would  be  abominably  cruel.  She  was  fond  of  him, 
dear  little  girl ! 

His  reflections  were  not  calm  or  coherent.  He  had 
more  engrossing  occupation  than  to  reflect.  But  one 
thought  and  another  cropped  up  at  intervals,  cropped 
up  like  asps  among  the  joys  and  roses  of  that  jewelled 
day,  swiftly  darting,  softly  hissing,  scarcely  heeded. 

The  lovers  took  their  meals  in  the  open  air  beneath 
the  trees,  in  an  atmosphere  charged  with  the  sun- 
warmed  odours  of  a  thousand  flowers.  They  sat  upon 
a  marble  bench  made  comfortable  with  cushions,  be- 
fore them  a  marble  table  of  old  Greece,  spread  with 
the  foods  of  modern  England.  Two  servants,  who, 
since  Burghwallis  had  come,  had  reshod  their  feet  with 
velvet,  waited  upon  them. 

The  hours  flew  like  a  flock  of  pearl  doves  in  the 
sun.  They  did  not  talk  much.  Nor,  after  their  first 
long  kiss,  did  they  kiss.  They  could  not  have  kissed 
with  the  windows  of  the  house  upon  them.  Had  they 
desired  they  might  have  withdrawn  from  the  eyes  of 
the  house.  But  there  was  no  need.  Their  eyes 
touched,  their  thoughts  touched,  sometimes  their  hands 
touched.  Between  them  was  a  current  of  emotions, 
a  magical  tide  between  two  banks,  setting  from  that 
bank  which  was  Burghwallis,  to  break  upon  the  other 
bank,  which  was  Alma. 

Alma  was  for  the  first  time  in  love,  in  love  not  only 
with  love,  but  in  love  also  with  her  lover.  The  thing 
was  a  marvel.  She  did  not  know  herself.  This  Alma 


Burghwallis  Returns  317 

he  had  kissed  was  surely  not  the  Alma  whom  he  had 
not  kissed.  She  felt  as  though  she  were  a  treasure- 
house  of  which  somebody  had  found  the  key  and  had 
shown  her  within  herself  an  untold  wealth  of  ecstasies. 
She  had  been  like  a  land,  ice-bound  and  steeped  in 
lethargy,  a  land  which  the  sun  had  now  found  and 
set  flowing  with  milk  and  with  honey. 

All  that  he  was  and  did  partook  of  the  marvellous. 
He  was  an  incarnate  mystery.  His  clothes  were  a 
source  of  never-ceasing  interest  and  astonishment,  his 
coat  with  its  pockets  and  the  odd  warm  things  for 
which  at  intervals  he  dived  and  brought  out  of  them, 
a  pen-knife  and  a  cigar-cutter,  a  jewelled  cigarette- 
case  and  a  match-box,  a  letter-case  stored  with  grave- 
looking  slips  and  memoranda,  which  he  handled  as 
though  they  possessed  some  mysterious  value  for  him, 
a  long  silk  purse  heavy  and  tinkling  with  money  — 
things  so  unlike  a  woman's  properties. 

She  smiled  to  herself  as  a  mother  might  smile  at 
her  child's  foibles,  noting  the  guile  with  which  on 
returning  his  handkerchief  to  a  pocket  he  so  arranged 
it  that  it  should  not  bulge.  And  when  his  phenome- 
nally smooth  head  was  brushed  accidentally  by  the 
branch  of  a  tree,  he  scrupulously  plastered  down  a 
disarranged  lock. 

These  things  showed  to  her  like  charming  revela- 
tions of  simplicity  in  an  otherwise  intricate  mind.  It 
was  so  engaging  that  this  large,  mysterious  being  to 
whose  nature  she  had  no  key  should  remember  to  think 
of  these  details. 

His  necktie  was  blue,  with  white  horseshoes  all  over 
it.  She  wondered  whether  the  fact  that  the  colour 
matched  his  eyes  was  a  result  of  premeditation  or  of 
chance.  The  horseshoes  were  large  and  rather  loud. 
A  woman  would  not  have  chosen  such  a  pattern.  But 
she  liked  that  in  him  which  chose  the  pattern,  a  manly 
simplicity  and  mental  breadth  which  did  not  vex  itself 
with  minutiae. 


318  The  Whips  of  Time 

A  bit  of  red  sock  was  visible  between  a  trouser-edge 
and  shoe,  red  silk  sock  with  flowers  which  might  have 
been  meant  for  very  neat  rose-buds  embroidered  across 
the  ankle.  She  smiled  again  gently. 

How  odd  for  a  man,  the  late  Governor  of  an  island, 
who  had  held  men's  lives  and  their  fates  in  his  hand, 
to  take  vain  delight  in  wearing  silk-embroidered  socks. 
It  seemed  adorable  in  him,  a  peep  of  feminine  weak- 
ness which  brought  a  recondite  being  into  perspective 
with  herself. 

Five  times  with  pleased  eyes  she  watched  him  light 
a  fresh  cigarette.  The  act  was  attended  by  a  good 
deal  of  ceremonial.  It  suggested  the  performance  of 
a  diminutive  rite  upon  the  altar  of  a  small  god.  His 
ringers  moved  with  supple,  practised  gestures,  diving 
first  into  mysterious  recesses  for  his  cigarette-case, 
unclosing  it  and  selecting  with  deliberation,  shutting 
the  case  with  a  snap  and  returning  it  with  one  hand 
to  a  pocket,  while  in  the  other  he  held  with  a  sort 
of  reverence  the  light,  white  trifle.  Then  the  match- 
box was  brought  out,  the  match  chosen  and  struck 
and  tilted  at  an  angle  in  order  to  allow  the  flame  to 
grip. 

The  cigarette  was  set  between  the  lips  and  the  lids 
dropped  over  the  eyes  as  they  carefully  watched  the 
flame  applied.  The  tiny  flare  lighted  the  face  and  the 
blond  moustache.  Two  or  three  puffs  of  white  smoke 
and  the  red  end  of  the  ignited  weed  glowed,  while  a 
gleam  of  gratification  as  of  a  pleased  palate  and  at 
an  achieved  success  succeeded  an  expression  of  slight 
tension.  The  match  was  waved  formally  in  the  air, 
extinguished  and  flung  with  a  little  precision  to  a 
distance.  Then,  the  rite  over,  life  was  resumed  to  the 
aroma  of  fresh  incense. 

She  was  never  tired  of  watching  it.  He  endued  it 
with  a  species  of  guile  which  she  found  characteristic 
and  strangely  attractive.  The  form  attending  it  was 
an  expression  of  the  highest  breeding.  None  but  a 


Burgh wallis  Returns  319 

man  with  centuries  of  leisure  and  culture  behind  him 
could  have  made  such  a  fine  art  of  the  small  con- 
vention. 

To  see  it  filled  her  with  bewildering  fondness.  For 
there  is  no  quality  which  so  appeals  to  women,  high 
or  low,  as  does  that  of  good  breeding. 

No  need  to  talk  or  to  kiss  indeed  while  the  space 
between  them  was  charged  with  a  thousand  such 
delicate  appreciations  and  interchanges. 

She  in  her  ignorance  had  never  dreamed  of  the 
joy  that  she  now  found,  merely  to  be  in  his  pres- 
ence. 

He,  from  his  experience,  knew  that  these  rainbow- 
hued,  subtle  emotions,  for  the  first  time  revealed  to 
him,  were  richly  rare,  things  of  the  iridescent  loveli- 
ness of  bubbles.  And  yet  could  one  but  maintain  the 
conditions  of  their  exquisite  existence,  they  like  the 
bubbles  were  as  intrinsically  real  as  was  the  substance 
from  which  they  were  spun. 

Experiencing  for  the  first  time  these  magical  illu- 
sions which  Alma's  proximity  spun  out  of  his  being, 
he  realised  that  all  that  was  needed  for  their  survival 
was  pure  and  delicate  handling.  Experiencing  them, 
he  realised  that  sex  may  be  a  talisman  to  transmute 
life  to  a  fine  art.  No  actuality  he  had  ever  known 
had  compared  with  the  enchantment  she  now  made  for 
him. 

It  evolved  a  new  man  in  him.  He  felt  new  stirrings, 
new  illuminations,  new  expansions.  Every  movement 
of  her,  every  word,  vibrated  on  strings  hitherto  un- 
sensed.  His  mind  was  filled  with  harmony  and  with 
colour. 

Always  before  having  known  nothing  better  than 
silken,  artificial  loves,  perfumed  with  sachets,  he  had 
laughed  at  the  poets.  Now  he  himself  was  a  poet. 
And  Love  was  an  idyl,  a  fresh  fair  rose  in  a  fragrant 
garden. 

Life  in  the  future  would  be  a  charmed  thing,  with 


320  The  Whips  of  Time 

this  garden  to  which  to  return  to  pluck  fair  and  fresh 
roses. 

All  her  seriousness  had  gone.  An  infective  gaiety 
which  sprang  from  tender  joy  inspired  her.  Her 
rare  order  of  mind  flowed  in  new  channels  of  exquisite 
folly,  limpid,  sparkling,  joy-inspiring,  the  spontaneous 
wit  and  laughter  of  souls. 

He  swore  in  his  heart  that  this  exquisite  converse 
should  long  suffice  them.  For  months  would  he  linger 
in  this  outer  Paradise,  content  with  the  fragrance 
wafting  from  its  gardens,  with  the  blossoms  overhang- 
ing its  walls,  with  its  reflected  radiance,  with  antici- 
pations. Then  he  would  put  his  yacht  into  commis- 
sion and  would  take  her  for  a  beatified  voyage  round 
the  world. 

Evening  came.  They  had  dined  under  the  trees. 
The  stars  began  to  swing  out  palpitating  in  the  sky. 
A  night  wind  sprang  fresh  and  cool.  It  struck  a  dif- 
ferent mood  in  him.  The  poet  gave  place  to  the  man. 
After  all  life  was  real.  When  all  was  said  and  done, 
months  hence  might  never  come.  A  runaway  horse, 
a  wrong  signal  on  a  line,  a  broken  railway  axle,  and 
—  there  was  no  to-morrow.  A  man  might  be  wiped 
out  forever,  or  go  hungering  forever  for  that  he  had 
failed  to  grasp  while  it  was  in  his  hand. 

The  marble  table  had  been  cleared.  He  lighted 
another  cigarette.  He  drew  it  fiercely.  Under  his 
lids  his  blue  eyes  flashed  to  her  as  she  sat  in  her  white 
gown  with  only  a  light  scarf  over  her  milk-white 
shoulders.  She  looked  across  at  him  and  smiled. 

"  Why  are  you  suddenly  angry  ?  "  she  said.  "  You 
look  quite  fierce." 

"  I'm  not  angry.     I  am  thinking." 

The  red  tip  of  his  cigarette  glowed  redder  in  the 
night.  A  nightingale  in  an  adjoining  tree  struck  up  a 
faint  sweet  prelude.  The  moon  swam,  a  silver  cres- 
cent in  the  ocean  of  the  sky.  The  night  seemed  to 
hold  its  breath. 


Burgh wallis  Returns  321 

There  was  a  prosaic  interruption.  A  footman  com- 
ing silently  toward  them,  his  tall  shadow  moving  with 
him  on  the  grass.  He  approached  and  stood  obse- 
quiously : 

"  The  carriage  is  round,  my  lord." 

Burghwallis  started  and  stared.  Then  he  slightly 
nodded  his  head.  When  the  man  had  gone,  Alma 
could  hear  him  breathing  hard  and  rapidly.  He  did 
not  rise  or  move.  He  continued  to  smoke  in  silence. 
The  stable  clock  struck  nine. 

A  minute  passed.  And  still  he  did  not  move.  The 
silence  became  tense.  The  nightingale  in  the  adjoin- 
ing tree  suddenly  flooded  the  air  with  melody,  then 
waited  listening. 

"  Now  we  shall  have  a  duet,"  Burghwallis  said. 
His  voice  had  a  strange,  suppressed  sound. 

Immediately  from  another  tree  a  second  nightingale 
struck  up.  Again  there  was  silence,  as  though  the 
little  songsters  were  awaiting  applause. 

Then  Alma  said : 

"  Tony,  you  are  forgetting  the  carriage." 

"  It's  of  no  consequence,"  he  answered  slowly. 

"  But  you  will  lose  your  train." 

"  It's  of  no  consequence,"  he  said  again.  "  I  shall 
stop  and  listen  to  the  nightingales  instead  of  chasing 
back  to  stuffy  town." 

She  knew  but  little  of  conventions.  They  had  made 
no  part  of  Mrs.  Beaumont's  education  of  her.  But 
she  leaned  forward  and  said  earnestly : 

"  Tony,  I  think  you  ought  to  go.  It  would  be 
strange  for  you  to  remain,  I  think." 

He  threw  away  his  cigarette.  He  moved  up  beside 
her.  He  laid  a  hand  on  her  bare  arm.  Her  arm, 
cool  from  the  night  air,  shrank  beneath  it. 

"  It's  all  right,  dear,"  he  said,  speaking  quickly, 
so  that  his  words  seemed  to  tread  on  one  another.  "  It 
would  be  a  shame  to  spoil  this  lovely  evening.  The 
heat  has  gone.  There  is  a  delightful  breeze.  The 


322  The  Whips  of  Time 

stars  are  coming  out.  Dear,  may  I  not  stop  with  you 
and  listen  to  the  nightingales?  " 

"  No,  Tony,"  she  insisted,  with  a  catch  in  her 
breath.  "  I  don't  wish  you  to.  It  seems  so  strange." 

His  hand  slid  down  her  arm  to  her  hand  and  grasped 
it. 

"  There  can  be  nothing  strange,"  he  said,  "  between 
you  and  me,  Alma,  who  love  one  another." 

He  pressed  her  hand  in  silence.  He  lifted  it  to  his 
lips  and  set  hot  kisses  on  it. 

"  It's  all  right,  darling,"  he  said,  "  I'll  go  up  to  the 
house  and  tell  them." 


CHAPTER    XXXVII 

FLIGHT 

HE  had  been  gone  some  time.  As  she  sat  beneath  the 
trees,  her  breath  coming  fast,  an  unintelligible  quaking 
at  her  heart,  she  was  startled  by  a  harsh  whisper. 

"  Missie,  come  here  into  the  shrubbery.  I  have 
something  to  say  to  you." 

She  made  out  in  the  dark  the  gaunt,  hard  figure  and 
the  unpleasing  face  of  her  old  nurse.  Since  she  had 
been  a  child  she  had  been  accustomed  to  obey  implicitly 
her  terse  injunctions.  The  shrubbery  lay  close  to 
where  she  was  sitting.  Obediently  she  joined  her 
there. 

"Well,  Hannah,  what  is  it?"  Then,  "But  I  am 
not  at  all  cold,"  she  protested  as  the  old  woman, 
without  answering,  began  to  muffle  a  long  cloak  about 
her.  She  saw  that  she  carried  a  bag  and  a  hat  of  hers. 
Silently  she  clasped  the  cloak.  She  thrust  the  hat  into 
her  mistress's  hands. 

"  Put  it  on,  missie,"  she  said,  "  and  come  away  with 
me.  Your  feet  are  on  the  broad  road  to  destruction. 
Your  soul  is  in  danger  of  hell  fire.  I've  been  with 
you  since  you  was  in  long  clothes.  I  can't  stand  by 
and  see  you  go  your  aunt's  way." 

Alma  angrily  and  indignantly  combated  the  bitter 
accusations  into  which  she  broke.  How  dared  she  say 
such  evil  things?  She  would  tell  Lord  Anthony.  He 
himself  should  scold  her  for  her  false  and  cruel 
charges. 

Yet  even  at  the  moment,  hearing  his  return,  she  felt 
a  sudden  sinking  at  the  heart,  a  sudden  fear  of  him. 
Instinctively  she  caught  the  old  woman's  arm. 


324  The  Whips  of  Time 

"  Hush ! "  she  whispered,  "  for  Heaven's  sake, 
hush!" 

Through  the  screen  of  the  bushes  she  saw  him 
discover  her  absence,  saw  him  glance  impatiently  about 
for  her.  Her  heart  leapt  into  her  throat  for  some 
moments  in  which  his  eyes  rested  on  the  shrubbery. 
Then,  as  he  turned  on  his  heel  and  went  back  to  the 
house,  she  fell  into  a  fit  of  trembling.  She  began  to 
pin  on  the  hat. 

"  Hannah,"  she  said  breathlessly,  "  where  can  I  go? 
There  is  nowhere  for  me  to  go." 

Hannah  was  bonneted  and  cloaked,  a  grim  figure  in 
the  moonlight. 

"  There's  money  and  a  few  things  in  the  bag,"  she 
said.  "  We  can  sleep  at  the  hotel.  We  can  go  on  to 
London  in  the  morning." 

Alma  shrank  from  the  thought  of  this  publicity. 

"  People  will  talk  if  we  go  to  the  hotel  at  this  hour." 

"  Not  so  much  as  they  would  if  we  stopped  here," 
was  the  stern  answer. 

Alma,  now  trembling  and  eager,  hurried  down  the 
shrubbery  to  a  small  gate  opening  upon  the  road.  The 
situation,  stated  in  the  old  woman's  vigorous  words, 
had  burned  into  her  soul.  Yet  at  the  gate  she  turned. 

"What  will  he  say?  What  will  he  think?"  she 
faltered. 

Hannah,  for  answer,  set  her  strong  old  hands  upon 
her  and  turned  her  about  upon  her  new  road. 

"  We  must  get  on,  missie.  It's  late  and  a  long  walk 
before  us." 

Then  Alma  had  an  inspiration.  She  would  go  to 
Joan.  Joan  had  invited  her  to  stay  with  her.  They 
slipped  back  into  the  grounds,  and  getting  out  upon  the 
road  through  the  pass  were  soon  at  The  Folly. 

It  was  not  until  she  saw  Joan's  astonished  counte- 
nance, surmounted  by  Hummerstone's  inquisitive  one, 
that  Alma  realised  the  unconventional  circumstances  of 
her  request  to  be  taken  in.  Before  she  had  time  to 


Flight  325 

betray  her  embarrassment,  however,  Hannah  was 
explaining. 

"  His  lordship  came  to  Moonbank  all  of  a  sudden 
after  dinner,"  she  said  mendaciously.  "  It's  his  house 
now,  and  he  thought  the  ladies  was  gone.  So  Miss 
Alma  thought  of  you,  ma'am,  as  it  wasn't  the  proper 
thing  for  her  to  stop." 

Joan  laughed. 

"  What  an  embarrassing  situation !  "  She  kissed 
Alma.  "  Stop  here  of  course.  I'm  pleased  to  have 
you.  Why,  you're  trembling  all  over." 

"  We  came  rather  quickly,"  Alma  said,  picking 
words  in  a  desperate  fashion  out  of  the  wreck  of  her 
opal  and  diamond  day. 


CHAPTER    XXXVIII 

THE    SEARCH 

WHEN  a  man  and  a  woman  are  in  love  their  powers 
are  for  the  time  so  quickened  as  to  partake  of  the 
supernatural.  In  reality  it  is  not  supernatural,  but 
only  the  normal  evolved  to  those  finer  issues  which  in 
the  course  of  development  will  presently  be  normal. 

Burghwallis  returning  to  the  marble  bench,  a  spot 
charged  with  the  emotions  of  the  day,  and  finding 
Alma  gone,  knew  in  a  flash  that  she  had  deserted  him. 
Then,  as  we  do  upon  such  intuitive  flashes  of  truth,  he 
summoned  his  reason  to  come  blundering  in,  to  assert, 
to  insist,  to  asseverate  that  the  thing  was  absurd. 
There  were  a  dozen  possible  reasons  for  her  absence. 
Feeling  chilly  she  might  have  gone  in  to  the  house  for 
a  wrap.  She  might  have  gone  in  to  give  an  order,  to 
get  a  hairpin  for  disarranged  locks,  a  pin  for  a  torn 
frill,  a  glass  of  water  because  the  hot  day  had  made  her 
thirsty. 

And  yet  while  his  hastily-summoned  reason,  a  crude 
and  blundering  servant,  stammered  these  excuses,  his 
eyes  raked  the  garden  for  her,  his  mind  perturbed 
dwelled,  with  an  insight  which  only  just  failed  of 
being  sight,  upon  the  shrubbery  where  she  was  cower- 
ing, in  a  panic  lest  he  who  some  minutes  earlier  had 
seemed  to  her  to  be  a  demigod,  a  beloved  tower  of 
security,  should  find  her. 

He  strode  back  to  the  house.  With  an  eagerness 
and  haste  which  belied  the  specious  assurances  of  his 
reason  he  searched  all  the  rooms  upon  the  lower  floor. 

Yet  still  his  reason  fooled  him.    Now  it  was  that 


The  Search  327 

she  had  found  her  pin  or  hairpin,  had  quenched  her 
thirst,  had  found  her  wrap.  By  this  time  she  would 
have  returned  to  the  garden.  He  went  back  to  the 
bench.  His  heart  beat  like  a  strong  thing  struggling 
with  stronger  waters  when  he  saw  it  empty.  Had  ever 
bench  appeared  so  empty  as  that  which  held  its  cold 
white  arms  derisively  toward  him?  Frantic,  he  flung 
himself  before  it  and  kissed  a  dozen  times  the  spot 
where  she  had  sat.  It  was  not  even  warm  from  her 
sweet  presence. 

Then,  being  a  man  of  action  and  still  deluded  by 
his  reason,  he  ran  lightly  and  quickly  through  the 
grounds,  searching  every  nook  and  arbour  lest  she 
should  be  hiding  in  a  sudden  shy  coquetry.  He  only 
missed  them  by  some  seconds  as  she  and  Hannah 
returned  through  the  grounds  to  the  pass. 

He  went  back  to  the  house  and  again  searched  all 
the  lower  rooms.  He  rang  a  bell.  To  his  question 
where  was  Miss  Wenlith  the  servant  replied  that  she 
was,  he  believed,  in  the  grounds.  He  would  inquire. 

He  came  back  to  repeat  that  she  was  in  the  grounds. 
She  was  nowhere  in  the  house. 

Burghwallis  instructed  that  Hannah  should  be  sent 
to  him.  Hannah,  it  appeared,  could  not  be  found. 
The  first  warmth  which  had  visited  his  heart  since  it 
had  chilled  at  the  sight  of  the  empty  bench  now  came 
to  it. 

If  he  had  driven  her  out  into  the  night,  a  hapless, 
helpless  girl,  at  all  events  she  was  not  alone.  She  had 
with  her,  to  protect  her  helplessness,  a  strong,  shrewd 
guide. 

He  sat  down  with  his  face  in  his  hands. 

God !  She  was  all  he  most  loved  in  the  world.  And 
he  had  driven  her  out,  friendless,  helpless,  penniless. 
Could  he  have  done  worse  had  he  been  her  worst 
enemy?  This  roof  had  for  years  been  her  home,  and 
he  had  denied  her  its  shelter,  had  denied  her  common 
hospitality,  had  asked  such  a  price  for  the  lodging  of 


328  The  Whips  of  Time 

her  gentle  head,  for  the  small  matters  of  her  food  and 
raiment  that  she  had  fled  desperate  into  the  night. 

God!  What  a  thing  was  a  man,  how  base,  how 
selfish !  He  saw  in  a  flash  amid  his  passion  of  revul- 
sion the  world  of  men,  greedy  and  lustful,  saying  to 
women,  "  Only  on  these  terms  shall  you  live,  that  you 
barter  your  honour  for  bread  and  for  shelter."  Love? 
Oh,  Heaven !  Chivalry  ?  Oh,  Heaven !  Nothing  but 
prate !  Damned  prate !  He  loved  her  with  all  his  soul. 
And  he  had  driven  her  homeless  into  the  night. 

In  a  reaction  he  fell  to  blaming  her.  His  pride  and 
self-esteem  were  hurt.  He  grumbled  peevishly  that 
she  had  not  cared  how  he  would  suffer.  He  reflected 
savagely  that  she  fled  him  as  though  he  had  been  a 
leper. 

She  rejected  his  love,  his  devoted  and  delicate  love, 
and  all  he  would  have  given  to  her,  as  though  they  had 
been  beneath  contempt. 

He  was  roused  by  the  entrance  of  Hannah.  She 
stood  before  him  gaunt  and  quiet  and  inscrutable  of 
expression. 

"  Your  lordship  wished  to  see  me." 

He  looked  at  her  astonished.  He  looked  past  her 
for  a  delicate,  well-loved  form.  They  had  returned 
then.  Thank  God !  Never  again,  so  help  him !  would 
he  drive  her  forth. 

"  Where  is  Miss  Wenlith?  " 

Hannah  pretended  surprise.  She  glanced  about  the 
room. 

"  I  haven't  seen  her,  my  lord.  They  say  she  is  in 
the  grounds." 

"  You  —  have  —  not  —  seen  —  her  ?  " 

*'  No,  my  lord,  not  since  I  helped  her  to  dress  for 
dinner." 

Hannah  was  possessed  of  sterling  qualities.  Among 
these,  however,  was  not  so  nice  a  sense  of  truth  as 
would  stand  in  the  way  of  that  she  regarded  as  her 
duty. 


The  Search  329 

"  Is  that  the  truth  or  a  lie  ?  "  Burghwallis  demanded 
in  a  rage.  Hannah's  reappearance  roused  his  anxieties 
and  self-accusals  to  a  storm.  After  all,  she  was  out 
in  the  night,  with  no  shrewd  guide,  but  with  only  her 
own  fears  and  her  despairs. 

'  You  have  been  out,"  he  added  sternly. 

"  Yes,  my  lord.  I've  been  to  supper  with  Mrs. 
Dowson  at  the  west  lodge."  She  turned :  "  But  I'll 
go  and  find  my  mistress  and  tell  her  your  lordship 
wishes  to  see  her." 

She  ducked  her  grim  and  scowling  face  and  took  her 
leave. 

After  leaving  Alma  with  Joan  she  had  returned. 
Joan  had  not  invited  and  had  obviously  not  expected 
her  to  remain.  Whereat  her  gnarled  pride  had  taken 
high  offence  even  in  the  midst  of  graver  issues.  She 
had  come  back  quietly  like  an  old  mare  returning  to 
its  quarters. 

Burghwallis  was  now  desperate.  She  was  out  in  the 
night,  homeless,  and  friendless,  and  alone.  He  pic- 
tured her  in  her  thin  dinner  frock,  her  delicate  shoul- 
ders and  her  bare  arms  exposed  to  the  night  airs.  How 
frantic  must  have  been  her  dread  of  him  —  of  him  — 
God  forgive  him!  She  had  fled  without  word  to 
anyone,  with  no  other  thought  but  to  escape 
him. 

He  ran  to  the  hall,  and  taking  coat  and  hat  went 
out  to  seek  her.  The  lake  spread  suddenly  before  him, 
a  broad  and  silver  mystery,  the  marble  pagoda  standing 
in  its  midst. 

A  sudden  horrid  terror  smote  him.  He  struck  it 
down.  What  madness  it  was !  Should  he  make 
mountains  of  molehills,  stab  his  heart  with  straws? 
His  sane,  dear  girl  would  never  do  that! 

He  set  his  face  and  passed  it.  He  asked  himself, 
peevishly,  why  had  she  not  spoken  ?  Why  had  she  not 
told  him  her  scruples  ?  These  things  were  so  common. 
Women  in  general  thought  so  little  of  them.  How 


330  The  Whips  of  Time 

could  he  have  supposed  that  she  would  take  it  so 
desperately  ? 

He  believed  she  knew  nobody  in  Scrope-Denton.  So 
far  as  he  knew  she  had  not  a  friend  in  the  world. 

He  spent  the  night  in  forging  up  and  down  the 
roads.  They  stretched  before  him,  silver  shining  in 
the  moonlight,  with  scarcely  a  shadow  on  them. 

Whatsoever  her  children's  woes,  Nature  pursues  her 
broad  and  tranquil  way.  Every  unhappy  soul,  she 
knows,  is  in  her  large  hands.  This  pain  they  suffer, 
this  remorse  or  grief  which  sends  a  dark,  distracted 
figure  peering  and  threshing  through  her  silver  sleep, 
frantically  asearch  for  some  poor  friend  who  is  in 
danger  of  perishing  by  the  way  —  this  pain,  she  knows, 
is  only  growing  pain,  the  rack  on  which  man  comes  to 
higher  stature. 

He  wandered  all  night,  at  first  with  strenuous  im- 
pulses and  method,  searching  every  barn  and  hay-rick, 
diving  into  every  copse  and  dingle  which  might  promise 
cover  to  a  delicate,  frightened  creature.  Later,  losing 
hope,  he  searched  aimlessly  and  distractedly,  impelled 
now  only  by  distress. 

He  withstood  all  sickening  promptings  to  search 
pools  and  streams.  These  were  mere  morbid  weak- 
nesses, he  told  himself.  Alma  would  never  do  that. 
And  if  she  had  done  it  he  was  sure  he  would  have 
known.  In  his  quickened  consciousness  he  had  a  sense 
of  her  weeping  somewhere,  upbraiding  him,  fearing 
him,  but  still  alive. 

The  silver  burnish  of  the  night  dulled.  The  sicklied 
moon  showed  like  an  anaemic  spectre  driven  before  a 
band  of  lusty  little  morning  clouds.  All  became  grey 
and  shadowy  as  though  before  they  had  fled,  the  night 
witches  had  sucked  the  colour  and  the  substance  out  of 
things.  Nature  turned  in  her  bed  and  shivered,  in  two 
minds  as  to  whether  she  should  get  up  that  morning. 
The  earth  groaned  on  its  axis. 


The  Search  331 

The  scene-shifters  thrust  in  the  wings  of  another 
day's  pageant.  Slowly  it  moved  into  action,  a  bit  of 
bad,  ill-defined  drawing,  with  no  half  tones  or  colour. 
Now,  faint  and  dingy  hues  began  to  be  picked  out, 
sodden  and  heavy  like  the  colours  in  wet  velvet.  The 
fields  showed  drenched  with  dew,  their  nap  brushed 
the  wrong  way.  The  earth  had  a  half-drowned  look. 

The  sun  rose  drowsily  from  its  couch  of  clouds,  a 
blood-red  ball,  only  half-inflated.  Slowly  it  sucked 
itself  full  from  the  vapours  of  the  night,  then  gathering 
buoyancy  and  poise  began  to  balloon  up  the  sky.  The 
flowers  blinked  out  of  their  sleepy  lids.  They  could 
no  longer  pretend  it  was  not  morning.  They  yawned, 
winked  the  tears  from  their  lids  and  opened  their  many- 
coloured  eyes. 

Before  one  had  time  to  look  round  the  heart  of  the 
earth  was  again  pulsating,  its  cheeks  crimsoning  and 
aglow  with  life  and  light. 

And  through  the  wonder  of  it,  without  thought  for 
it,  with  haggard  face  and  extinguished  eyes,  Burgh- 
wallis  returned  to  Moonbank. 

A  servant,  sufficiently  mindful  of  his  duties  to  sup- 
press his  yawns,  opened  the  door  to  him.  As  he  went 
upstairs  to  the  room  he  had  ordered  to  be  prepared  for 
him,  the  man  quenched  the  hall-light,  which  he  had  left 
burning  with  a  sense  that  it  would  in  a  measure  con- 
done this  very  late  home-coming. 

Burghwallis  flung  himself  down  upon  his  bed.  But 
not  to  sleep.  Only  to  thresh  from  side  to  side  of  it, 
obsessed  by  a  dread  that  he  had  failed  to  find  her 
because  he  had  shirked  the  ponds. 


CHAPTER    XXXIX 

WITH    JOAN 

WHILE  he  so  sought  and  suffered,  Alma  lay  safe  in  the 
pretty  room  Joan  had  put  at  her  disposal,  safe  but 
overwhelmed  with  grief,  now  weeping  passionately, 
now  sitting  up  wildly,  asking  herself  what  he  was 
doing,  whether  he  was  blaming  her,  was  missing  her, 
was  suffering,  then  covering  her  hot  face  with  her 
hands,  ashamed  to  grieve  for  him,  to  think  of  him  who 
had  thought  of  her  so  lightly. 

Toward  morning,  refreshed  by  a  heavy  rain  of  tears, 
she  fell  asleep  and  did  not  wake  until  a  maid  brought 
tea  to  her. 

She  rose  and  dressed.  She  was  aghast  at  her 
reflection  in  the  glass.  Would  Joan,  inquisitive,  com- 
ment upon  her  tragic  look  and  swollen  eyes  ?  She  did 
her  best  to  remove  the  traces  of  her  suffering  and  went 
down  to  breakfast.  Joan  made  no  comments.  She 
was  absorbed  in  her  own  affairs. 

Alma,  despite  her  miseries,  now  that  she  made  his 
acquaintance,  could  not  help  wondering  why  she  had 
married  Hummerstone. 

The  man  was  so  commonplace  and  underbred. 
Everything  he  said  jarred  on  her  tastes  and  sensibilities, 
his  mean  sentiments,  his  pride  in  the  power  of  money. 
All  that  he  did  offended,  his  greedy  and  obtrusive  way 
of  eating,  his  lack  of  courtesy  at  table. 

She  turned  her  eyes  from  him,  ashamed  to  find 
herself  so  hostilely  criticising  him.  She  had  known  no 
men  but  the  Duke  and  Burghwallis.  She  must  not,  of 
course,  expect  all  men  to  be  equally  well  mannered, 


With  Joan  333 

Yet  how  could  Joan  have  married  him?  She  had 
cried  her  eyes  dry.  But  a  lump  rose  in  her  throat  as 
she  reflected  that  there  was  only  one  man  in  the  world 
whom  she  could  understand  any  woman  wishing  to 
marry.  And  he  —  She  dared  not  think  of  him. 

To  her  amazement  Joan  and  Hummerstone  bickered 
mildly  throughout  the  meal.  How  could  persons  who 
loved  one  another  quarrel  over  stupid  trifles?  Joan 
wished  a  blind  drawn  because  the  sun  glared  in  her 
eyes.  Hummerstone,  grumbling  that  he  liked  every 
available  ray  of  sunshine,  drew  down  the  blind  inch  by 
inch,  demanding  with  each  inch,  "  Will  that  do?  "  "  Is 
that  enough  ?  "  and  finally  left  it  only  half  drawn, 
insisting  that  she  must  be  satisfied  with  that. 

Whereupon,  with  a  return  of  her  old  spirit,  Joan  had 
swept  to  the  window  and  had  dragged  down  the  blind 
to  its  limit  with  a  great  rattle. 

And  then  after  a  minute  Hummerstone  had  lounged 
up  again  from  his  chair  and  had  raised  it  a  third  up 
the  window,  complaining  that  he  could  not  see  what 
he  was  eating. 

Joan  had  made  no  further  protest.  But  Alma  saw 
her  steal  a  long,  slow  glance  at  him,  a  glance  which 
shocked  her  by  its  ugliness.  She  saw  then  that  her 
friend  had  greatly  altered,  that  she  had  lost  all  her 
brightness  and  buoyancy  of  look  and  of  manner.  She 
had  become  almost  plain.  Surely  she  could  not  be 
well. 

There  was  a  squabble  over  the  sweetening  of 
Hummerstone's  coffee.  Instead  of  putting  in  sugar 
from  the  basin  on  the  tray,  Joan  produced  a  bottle  of 
white  tabloids  from  her  pocket,  and  selecting  two  with 
a  good  deal  of  deliberation,  dropped  them  into  the  cup 
she  had  poured  for  him. 

Alma  supposed  that  this  must  be  a  standing  point  of 
contention  between  them.  He  turned  almost  livid  — 
she  supposed  from  anger.  His  hands  shook.  When 
the  cup  was  passed  to  him  he  rose  and  violently  poured 


334  The  Whips  of  Time 

its  contents  into  a  basin,  washed  out  the  cup  and 
carried  it  back  to  the  tray. 

He  filled  it  himself  from  the  coffee-pot  and  sweet- 
ened it  with  sugar. 

"  You'll  never  get  me  to  drink  the  filthy  muck,"  he 
said  coarsely,  "  so  it's  no  use  trying." 

"  Why,"  Joan  returned  with  a  disagreeable  silki- 
ness  of  voice,  "  it  is  only  saccharin.  You  are  getting 
far  too  stout." 

At  the  same  time  she  let  her  eyes  dwell  on  him  with 
a  repetition  of  that  ugly  look. 

He  sat  for  some  time  subdued,  his  face  brooding. 
At  intervals  he  raised  his  eyes  and  stole  a  stealthy 
glance  at  her. 

These  embarrassing  passages-at-arms  kept  Alma 
from  dwelling  on  her  griefs.  They  filled  her  with 
astonishment.  They  were  a  wholly  new  experience. 
Mrs.  Beaumont's  golden-tempered  tranquillity  had  been 
a  species  of  virtue.  During  Alma's  whole  life  with  her 
she  did  not  remember  to  have  seen  her  vexed  or  angry. 
Never  had  she  heard  her  utter  a  harsh  word.  Saxby 
had  been  imperious  and  sometimes  savage,  and  his 
word  had  been  law,  albeit  in  small  things  such  as  that 
adjustment  of  a  blind  he  had  always  in  an  instant 
yielded  his  own  inclination  to  that  of  the  women  about 
him. 

Tony  —  but  she  dared  not  remember  Tony. 

"  Take  my  advice,  Miss  Wenlith,  and  never  marry," 
Hummerstone  said  presently,  with  a  spiteful  glance  at 
Joan.  "  Since  I  married  her  Jonah  has  turned  out  a 
regular  vixen." 

"If  she  has  it  must  be  your  fault,"  Alma  retorted 
with  spirit.  "  She  has  always  been  exceedingly 
amiable." 

"  Those  are  only  company  manners.  Before  I  knew 
her  at  home  I  believed  too  that  butter  would  not  melt 
in  her  mouth." 

Joan  did  not  speak.     She  continued  to  eat  her  break- 


With  Joan  335 

fast  in  a  silence  to  which  her  dull  look  gave  a  semblance 
of  sullenness. 

Hummerstone  leaned  toward  Alma.  Dropping  his 
voice  to  a  tone  of  intimacy  he  said,  with  a  smirk : 

"  You  and  I  are  going  to  be  chummy.  We'll  leave 
her  to  scold  by  herself." 

Alma  considered  him  odious. 

Joan's  passivity  surprised  her.  She  had  known  her 
always  full  of  spirit  and  quick  of  retort. 

Hannah  came  in  in  the  course  of  the  day.  She 
brought  with  her  a  selection  from  Alma's  wardrobe. 

"  Lord  Anthony  is  still  at  Moonbank,  I  suppose," 
Alma  said  as  the  old  woman,  without  a  word  of  news, 
proceeded  to  arrange  the  clothes  in  drawers  and  in 
wardrobes.  "  Was  he  anxious  last  night  when  he 
found  I  had  gone  ?  " 

"  He  did  seem  a  bit  put  about,"  her  nurse  admitted. 
"  But  this  morning  he's  had  his  breakfast  and  gone  for 
a  stroll." 

Hannah,  she  knew,  held  no  key  to  his  heart.  He 
was  the  last  man  to  betray  emotion.  And  yet  the 
picture  drawn  in  the  bald,  unsympathetic  words  filled 
her  with  mortification. 

Had  he  lost  her  as  lightly  as  he  had  held  her? 

"  They  say  in  the  servants'  hall  he  be  a  great  one 
with  the  ladies,"  Hannah  volunteered  out  of  a  ward- 
robe. 

The  blood  surged  to  her  face.  It  drummed  in  her 
ears  like  a  Dead  March  drumming  on  the  grave  of  her 
illusions. 

Presently  she  crossed  the  room,  and  with  all  the 
energy  left  to  her  —  the  energy  of  pride  —  she  kissed 
her  old  friend's  grim  face. 

"  Thank  you  a  thousand  times,  Hannah,"  she  said, 
"  for  what  you  did  for  me  last  night." 

"  Oh,  that's  nothing,  missie,"  Hannah  protested  — 
like  all  grim  persons  embarrassed  by  a  show  of  feeling. 


336  The  Whips  of  Time 

"  You're  like  one  of  my  own.  I  couldn't  stand  by  and 
see  you  go  your  aunt's  way.  Better  only  a  crust  of 
bread,  Miss  Alma,  as  long  as  a  woman  goes  right. 
The  other  way  always  ends  bad." 

When  she  had  gone  Alma  once  more  summoned  her 
pride,  the  last  asset  of  her  bankrupt  heart.  She  sat 
down  to  her  writing-table,  and  taking  her  pen  ran- 
sacked her  brain  for  thoughts.  Presently  the  pen  was 
flying  over  the  pages. 

She  wrote  for  two  whole  hours.  Then,  her  face 
burning  and  her  eyes  dry-hot  from  the  fever  behind 
them,  she  read  what  she  had  written.  It  was  fluent 
and  there  were  vitality  and  graphic  touches  in  it.  But 
it  was  quite  untrue  to  life,  a  mere  epitome  of  all  that 
she  had  read  about  the  falseness  and  the  inconstancy  of 
men  and  of  the  faithful,  tender  hearts  of  women 
crushed  and  mangled  by  such  falseness.  Her  own  case 
pointed  the  moral. 

She  wept  bitterly  above  it.  It  seemed  to  her  to  be 
a  masterpiece  of  miserable  truth.  And  she  wept 
bitterly  because  it  was  the  truth. 

Before  the  day  was  out  her  pride-in-arms  against 
Burghwallis  was  reinforced  by  a  lesser  pride,  the  pride 
of  independence.  For  it  became  plain  to  her  that  Joan 
did  not  want  her  at  The  Folly.  She  was  not  discour- 
teous but  she  was  absent  and  sullen.  She  neither 
sought  Alma  nor  appeared  pleased  when  Alma  joined 
her. 

Alma  had  no  alternative  but  to  avail  herself  for  the 
present  of  this  negative  hospitality.  But  it  set  her 
smarting  sorely  and  excited  a  wholesome  counter- 
irritant  to  her  deeper  griefs.  The  obligation  to  apply 
herself  heart  and  soul  to  the  task  of  bread-winning 
whipped  up  new  strength  of  will  and  of  purpose  in  her. 

At  tea  the  squabble  of  the  saccharin  tabloids  was 
renewed.  Hummerstone  started  it  by  going  to  the  tray 
and  putting  two  lumps  of  sugar  into  a  cup. 


With  Joan  337 

"  That  is  for  me,"  he  stated.  "  None  of  your 
beastly  tabloids  this  time." 

But  while  his  head  was  turned,  as  he  went  back  to 
his  chair,  Alma  saw  Joan  whip  out  her  bottle  and 
removing  the  sugar  substitute  tabloids  for  it.  When 
she  had  rilled  it  he  took  it  from  her  with  a  grin  of  com- 
placent triumph  at  having,  as  he  supposed,  outwitted 
her.  He  drank  half  its  contents  at  a  draught.  But  as 
he  set  it  down  he  rolled  the  flavour  on  his  tongue.  He 
glanced  up  suspiciously.  He  met  her  green  eyes  fixed 
inscrutably  upon  him. 

He  sniffed  his  cup.  He  got  up  trembling,  his  face 
a  sickly  green. 

"  You  demon,"  he  accused  her  violently,  "  you've 
put  some  horrible  thing  into  it.  It  tastes  bitter.  It 
has  made  me  feel  sick."  He  strode  to  the  door,  his 
long  limbs  flinging  before  him  in  a  sort  of  agitated 
incoordination.  At  the  door  he  turned. 

"  Look  here,  Miss  Wenlith,"  he  said,  "  if  I  die  of 
poison  you'll  know  my  wife  has  done  it  with  her 
beastly  messes." 

He  flung  out  of  the  room. 

Joan,  with  her  slow  smile,  refilled  her  cup.  "  The 
silly  man !  "  she  said  in  the  same  silky  voice,  "  he  has 
quite  a  senseless  prejudice  against  saccharin." 

'  Then  why  give  it  to  him  ?  "  Alma  asked. 

"  I  don't  like  him  to  be  fat,"  Joan  said.  She  smiled 
again.  It  was  a  horrid  smile,  Alma  thought. 

"  The  truth  is,"  Joan  told  her  later,  "  he  is  angry 
at  having  to  live  here  in  the  country.  He  hates  the 
country.  And  I  hate  the  town.  I  will  neither  live 
there  nor  will  I  give  him  money  to  live  away  from  me. 
I'm  not  altogether  a  fool." 

"  Joan,  dear,"  Alma  said  sympathetically,  "  I'm 
afraid  you're  not  very  happy." 

Joan  laughed  scofrmgly. 

"  Is  anybody  happy  ?  "  she  retorted. 


CHAPTER   XE 

INSOMNIA 

BURGH WALLIS  wondered  if  it  were  a  fact  that  for  a 
whole  ten  days  he  had  not  slept  a  wink.  He  doubted 
if  it  could  be  true.  He  had  never  heard  of  a  man  lying 
awake  for  ten  days.  He  supposed  he  must  have  dozed 
at  intervals  without  observing  it.  Perhaps  he  had 
slept  as  he  walked.  He  walked  a  great  part  of  the  day. 
Now  he  had  searched  all  the  ponds.  But  there  might 
be  a  last  one,  one  hidden  away  among  trees  and  grasses, 
which  he  had  not  found.  He  was  looking  for  it. 

He  denied  this  to  himself,  however.  A  man  might 
glance  into  a  pond  without  admitting  horrible  possi- 
bilities. 

Alma  would  never  have  done  that.  She  was  still 
alive  and  safe  somewhere.  Not  happy  or  well  off  per- 
haps. How  could  she  be  ?  She  might  even  be  hungry 
and  cold  and  among  grudging  strangers.  But  she  was 
alive  somewhere. 

When  she  had  fled  she  must  surely  have  had  some 
purpose  in  her  mind.  She  would  not  have  rushed  out 
into  the  world  without  some  bourne  or  purpose. 

In  England  persons  did  not  starve  to  death.  There 
were  hospitals  for  those  who  fell  sick.  There  were 
workhouses. 

He  mopped  his  face  thinking  of  Alma  of  the  dainty 
feet  and  delicate  instincts  lying  in  some  coarse  hospital 
or  workhouse  bed,  surrounded  by  the  coarse  poor. 

The  morning  after  her  disappearance  he  had  quietly 
sent  for  detectives.  But  they  had  found  no  trace  of 
her. 

He  walked  the  greater  part  of  the  day  and  thought 


Insomnia  339 

all  night,  such  thoughts  as  were  like  flails  threshing  up 
and  down  his  brain  till  there  was  nothing  left  in  it  but 
arid  chaff. 

The  face  which  looked  back  at  him  out  of  the  glass, 
when  he  had  sought  for  it,  surprised  him.  Was  this 
his,  this  face  with  bunged-up,  red-rimmed  eyes,  with 
purple  patches  where  it  should  have  been  pale  and  pale 
patches  where  it  should  have  been  red  ?  His  hands  too 
were  mottled  and  congested  like  those  of  an  old 
drunkard.  Indeed,  he  reflected,  wondering,  his  whole 
appearance  was  that  of  a  man  after  a  bout  of  heavy 
drinking. 

Yet  he  was  not  drinking.  At  all  times  abstemious, 
he  drank  even  less  now  because  he  needed  to  keep  his 
wits  about  him.  And,  so  far  as  he  remembered,  he  was 
missing  a  number  of  his  meals. 

He  wondered  if  hell  could  hold  any  torture  more 
awful  than  these  sleepless  nights,  when  all  the  blood 
seemed  to  have  been  scorched  out  of  his  body  and  his 
tissues  to  be  filled  with  white,  hot  dust.  White,  hot 
dust,  too,  on  his  tongue  and  in  his  brain,  silting  and 
silting  this  way  and  that  to  every  thought  and  move- 
ment. 

He  had  got  back  a  touch  of  his  fever.  His  joints 
burned  and  ached.  He  felt  altogether  infernally 
hipped.  But  he  could  not  waste  time  in  lying  up. 
Besides,  his  hot  bed  was  an  inferno  from  which  he 
thankfully  escaped  with  each  return  of  day. 

Sometimes  as  a  relief  —  God,  was  it  a  relief?  — 
amid  his  burning,  threshing  thoughts,  there  stole  a 
mirage,  a  cool,  sweet  oasis,  a  phantasy  which  mocked 
and  flouted  him,  a  glimpse  of  tranquil,  tender  eyes,  of 
a  voice  that  was  balm,  of  a  touch  so  cool,  so  pure,  so 
fond  that  every  fibre  in  him  shook  with  ecstasy. 

A  moment  it  lingered  to  charm  and  soothe  his  burn- 
ing mind  and  body,  laying  the  hot,  driving  dust.  With 
parched  sighs  he  stretched  his  burning  arms  to  it,  he 
breathed  the  fragrance  of  her  into  the  furnace  of  his 


340  The  Whips  of  Time 

lungs,  he  thrust  out  his  gaunt  hot  cheek  for  the  coolness 
of  hers,  he  hungered  for  her,  panted  for  her,  drew  her 
down,  down  into  his  hollow  heart,  where  the  winds 
shrieked  desolately.  Then  she  was  gone  —  gone.  And 
the  winds  howled  more  desolately  and  the  hot  dust 
silted. 

When  morning  came  he  looked  back  on  the  night  and 
cursed.  What  was  he  but  a  fool,  a  madman?  When 
had  he  found  such  transcendental  potencies  in  any 
woman  ?  Lips,  hands,  kisses !  a  brief  exchange,  and  a 
nausea  of  disillusion. 

But  yet  the  conviction  clove  that  this  was  different, 
that  here  would  be  no  disillusion.  For  though  he  craved 
her  kiss,  her  cheek,  her  hand,  it  was  not  only  lips  and 
flesh  he  craved,  but  that  something  beyond  of  which 
these  were  but  instruments,  as  a  flower  is  the  vehicle  of 
loveliness  and  fragrance. 

It  was  the  desire  of  his  soul  for  her  soul  which  made 
his  poignancy  of  pain. 

Lowood  was  surprised  to  receive  a  visit  from  the 
local  doctor. 

Some  civilities  had  passed  already  between  them  and 
he  liked  the  man.  This  morning  Dr.  Burnham  wore  an 
air  of  trouble.  He  had  a  profound  respect  for  Lo- 
wood's  professional  skill  and  reputation.  But  knowing 
him  to  have  given  up  practice  he  felt  diffident  about 
consulting  him.  He  ventured,  however,  to  invoke  his 
aid  in  lieu  of  summoning  a  London  specialist.  He  had 
been  called  in  to  Moonbank  to  see  Lord  Anthony 
Burghwallis,  who  appeared  to  be  suffering  from  some 
obscure  malady  complicated  by  an  obstinate  insomnia. 

Lowood,  who  had  seen  Alma  and  had  learned  some- 
thing from  her  lips  and  still  more  from  her  silence, 
in  a  moment  guessed  the  nature  of  the  malady. 

He  experienced  a  sense  of  spiteful  gratification  to 
learn  that  the  man  had  sufficient  conscience  to  be  unable 
to  sleep  upon  his  sins. 


Insomnia  341 

When  he  had  seen  him,  however,  humanity  over- 
came every  other  feeling.  If  suffering  could  expiate, 
the  man  appeared  to  have  expiated.  For  he  was  upon 
the  point  of  the  most  cruel  form  of  death  —  or  of 
madness. 

The  patient  had  little  to  tell  him.  He  merely  roused 
out  of  a  baking  stupor,  which  was  nothing  like  sleep, 
to  explain  briefly  that  he  could  not  sleep,  that  so  far  as 
he  knew  he  had  not  slept  for  ten  days,  that  his  eyes 
and  brain  were  like  ovens  and  that  altogether  he  felt 
infernally  hipped.  A  dose  of  morphia  or  something 
would  set  him  right,  he  supposed.  He  would  be  all 
right  if  he  could  get  a  sleep. 

A  case  so  extreme  was  as  trump  to  the  war-horse. 
Lowood  in  a  moment  was  all  zeal.  At  once  he  set  to 
work.  He  told  him  cheerfully  that  he  would  soon  have 
him  asleep.  The  patient  muttered  something  about 
"  grateful  "  and  relapsed  into  his  staring  stupor. 

At  the  end  of  twenty-four  hours  Lowood  looked 
grave.  All  his  skill  had  failed.  Burghwallis  was 
but  twenty-four  hours  more  fevered,  more  red-eyed, 
more  spent  —  nearer,  in  short,  to  death  —  or  to  mad- 
ness. 

Lowood  had  courage  and  resource.  There  was,  he 
knew,  but  one  medicine  to  save  his  patient's  life.  If 
to  procure  this  for  him  lay  in  his  power  his  patient 
should  have  it.  He  made  straight  for  Alma.  After 
beating  a  little  about  the  bush  he  described  the  sufferer's 
state. 

"  Please  tell  me  nothing,"  he  concluded.  "  From 
words  he  has  let  fall  in  his  delirium  I  know  that  anxiety 
about  you  is  the  cause  of  his  illness.  Will  you  let  me 
take  you  to  him  ?  " 

"  Oh,  at  once,"  she  faltered.     "  Take  me  at  once." 

Lowood's  plan  of  action  was  arranged.  He  had 
undertaken  to  watch  by  the  patient  for  an  hour  while 
the  nurse  in  attendance  should  go  upon  some  mission 
he  had  planned. 


342  The  Whips  of  Time 

During  her  absence  Alma  was  to  be  introduced  into 
the  sick-room. 

An  hour  later  he  called  for  her.  As  they  went  he 
entered  into  explanations. 

"  You  believe,  I  know,  in  evolution." 

She  nodded  impatiently.  She  hurried  on.  How 
could  he  ask  her  at  such  a  moment  to  consider  trifles  ? 

"  Every  plane  of  Nature,"  he  went  on,  "  is  in  corre- 
spondence with  all  other  planes.  The  principles  on  all 
planes  are  alike.  They  differ  only  in  their  degree  of 
development  and  in  their  potency.  A  principle  is  less 
potent  on  the  mineral  plane  than  it  is  on  the  vegetable, 
less  potent  on  the  vegetable  than  it  is  on  the  animal. 
Are  you  listening?  " 

"  Oh,  as  well  as  I  can,"  she  returned. 

"  Among  her  many  potencies  Nature  possesses  what 
we  know  as  healing  principles.  We  have  healing 
principles  in  minerals,  we  have  healing  principles  in 
the  vegetable  world.  And  now  listen  —  we  have  yet 
more  highly  developed  healing  principles  in  man.  Man 
in  the  course  of  evolution  has  gathered  and  stored  in 
his  nature  every  principle  of  every  plane  beneath  him, 
and  because  he  is  Nature's  most  highly  evolved  mani- 
festation all  those  principles  are  more  potent  in  him 
than  they  are  on  lower  planes.  This  is  the  basis  of  a 
new  healing  art.  By  the  exercise  of  mind  and  will  man 
should  be  able  to  evolve  from  his  being  electric  or 
magnetic  or  vibratory  forces  corresponding  to  the 
chemical  and  vital  healing  principles  of  the  planes 
below  him." 

"  I  am  getting  bewildered,"  she  protested.  "  Must 
you  tell  me  all  this  now  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  he  stated  firmly,  "  because  Lord  Anthony's 
life  depends  upon  your  knowing  and  understanding 
what  I  tell  you.  In  his  case  mineral  and  vegetable 
principles  and  I  have  failed.  It  is  you  who  must  heal 
him.  It  lies  with  you  to  evolve  out  of  your  latent 
forces  nerve  vibrations,  human  electricity  (call  it  what 


Insomnia  343 

you  will),  which  shall  serve  him  for  an  opiate.  Some- 
where in  you  is  the  rest-diving,  sleep-giving  principle. 
When  you  come  into  his  presence  summon  out  of  you 
this  healing  balm  which  shall  put  this  poor  man  into 
a  refreshing  sleep." 

"  Oh,  but  I  have  no  such  potency,"  she  cried.  "  I 
am  neither  witch  nor  god,  but  only  an  unhappy,  power- 
less woman.  For  the  love  of  Heaven,  Dr.  Lowood, 
save  him  by  your  great  skill !  " 

He  caught  and  held  her  hand  in  his. 

"  My  dear  young  lady,"  he  insisted,  "  I  have  told  you 
nothing  but  the  truth.  You  and  you  only  can  save  him. 
He  is  beyond  all  art  of  mine." 

His  words  and  touch  restored  her.  After  all,  might 
it  not  be  true?  Could  Tony  die  while  she  so  loved 
him?  She  was  filled  with  a  passion  of  tenderness. 
Could  he  die  while  she  so  thrilled  with  vital  fondness 
for  him? 

She  waited  in  the  shrubbery  while  the  nurse  was 
sent  upon  her  mission. 

Then  Lowood  came  down  and  admitted  her  by  a 
window  opening  from  the  lawn. 

Burghwallis  lay  in  his  bed,  his  limbs  relaxed  as 
those  of  a  man  who  had  ceased  to  fight.  He  was  a 
spectre  of  himself,  gaunt  and  hollow-cheeked  and 
ashen,  with  livid  patches  on  his  cheek-bones,  his  lips 
dragging  from  his  teeth  beneath  the  blond  moustache 
which  showed  incongruously  debonair  on  such  a  face. 
Out  of  their  sunken  sockets  his  bloodshot  eyes  stared 
like  eyes  staring  at  horrid  things. 

His  parched  hands  plucked  at  the  bedclothes.  His 
breath  came  harsh.  Sometimes  he  muttered  hollowly. 

Healing  potencies?  Heavens!  Was  she  not  all  in 
a  moment  teeming  with  them?  Love  and  pity  sped 
down  every  wayside  of  her  nature,  sunning  and  quick- 
ening them  till  they  bloomed  again  with  herb  and 
healing. 


344  The  Whips  of  Time 

She  was  down  on  her  knees  by  his  bed,  her  arms 
about  him,  her  cheek  against  his  unshorn,  burning 
cheek,  one  of  his  hot,  dry  hands  in  hers. 

He  did  not  know  her.  Delirium  had  dropped  her 
scarlet  curtain  between  his  brain  and  all  outside  it. 

Lowood,  his  back  turned  to  them,  heard  him  draw 
some  rapid,  shallow  breaths,  feared  for  a  minute  they 
would  be  his  last,  that  the  shock  had  been  too  much 
for  him. 

Then  he  sighed,  paused,  and  began  again  to  breathe, 
this  time  more  quietly. 

The  room  was  steeped  in  silence  —  in  the  sacred 
silence  of  two  locked  souls. 

Alma,  surcharged  with  tenderness  and  pity,  was 
dimly  conscious  of  some  mystical  battery  within  her 
recharging  his  spent  brain  and  nerves  with  life  and 
with  sleep. 

And  Lowood,  listening  intently,  presently  heard  the 
senseless  panting  of  delirium  pass  into  the  gentle 
rhythm  of  refreshing  sleep. 

When  presently  he  touched  Alma  on  a  shoulder  and 
she  gently  disengaged  herself,  he  saw  that  the  patient 
was  fathoms  deep  in  slumber,  his  face  calm,  his  eyes 
closed,  a  half  smile  on  his  parched  lips. 

"  For  the  next  twenty-four  hours  a  bomb-explosion 
would  scarcely  wake  him,"  he  told  her,  smiling  in 
congratulation.  "  Come  now,  you  did  well,  my  pupil." 

"  You  must  never,  never  tell  him,"  she  entreated. 

He  pressed  her  hand.  He  went  back  to  his  patient, 
thrilled  by  a  strange  exaltation.  For  the  first  time 
in  his  starved  life  a  woman  had  kissed  his  hand.  It 
taught  him  new  things.  It  served  for  a  practical  illus- 
tration of  his  theories.  If  a  woman's  gratitude  could 
so  thrill  him,  was  it  strange  that  her  love  should  be 
a  healing  potency? 

Burgh wallis  slept,  as  Lowood  had  predicted,  for  a 
day  and  a  night.  He  awoke  peevish  but  with  his 
brain  restored  to  some  sort  of  balance. 


Insomnia  345 

"  Has  anybody  been  here?  "  was  his  first  question. 

To  which  the  nurse  in  all  good  faith  replied : 

"  Nobody  except  the  doctors." 

When  he  next  saw  him  Lowood  made  a  point  of 
saying  casually : 

"  By  the  way,  Miss  Wenlith,  who  is  stopping  with 
her  friend,  Mrs.  Hummerstone,  was  asking  after  you 
this  morning.  Can  I  give  her  any  message  ?  " 

There  was  a  long  silence.  Then  a  muttered,  "  None, 
thanks !  "  came  from  the  bed. 

Lowood  reflected  that  his  patient  would  in  all  prob- 
ability sleep  again  that  night. 

His  patient  spent  a  portion  of  it  in  fitting  all  the 
adjectives  at  his  command  to  the  word  "  ass  "  and  in 
applying  word  and  adjectives  to  himself.  And  "  melo- 
dramatic ass  "  was  the  one  from  which  he  derived  the 
greatest  satisfaction. 

Two  mornings  later  he  returned  to  town,  anxiously 
deliberating  his  plan  of  action.  He  had  got  himself 
into  a  pretty  muddle.  Had  he  transgressed  beyond 
forgiveness  ? 

As  for  Jones  and  Robinson,  they  were  a  couple  of 
shallow  snobs  whose  opinion  wasn't  worth  cigar  ash. 
A  man  could  marry  whom  he  pleased  and  let  all  the 
narrow-minded  noodles  of  the  clubs  go  hang ! 

Men  had  faced  fire  and  sword  and  every  inconceiv- 
able torture  for  the  women  they  loved.  Surely  one 
might  brave  a  few  senseless  snickers ! 

He  passed  some  grim  days  at  Boodles,  sardonically 
staring  at  the  following  announcement,  which  with  his 
own  hand  he  had  written  upon  a  sheet  of  the  imposing- 
looking  club  paper : 

"  An  engagement  is  announced  between  Lord  An- 
thony Burghwallis,  third  son  of  the  fifteenth  Duke 
of  Saxby,  and  Alma,  only  daughter  of  the  late  Sarah 
Munnings,  convicted  of  poisoning  thirteen  persons  and 
sentenced  to  be  hanged." 

I  cannot  say  that  he  contemplated  inserting  the 


346  The  Whips  of  Time 

announcement  in  the  Morning  Post.  And  yet  he  cyn- 
ically asked  himself  why  not?  Was  it  not  the  truth? 
Was  there  a  soul  who  would  not  soon  know  it? 

At  the  time  of  the  trial  the  papers  had  made  much 
of  the  fact  that  the  murderess  was  the  only  sister  of 
the  incomparably  lovely  Bet  Beaumont,  who  was  just 
then  turning  all  heads. 

Gazing  gloomily  at  the  announcement,  he  mopped 
his  blond  moustache.  He  thought  he  would  rather 
have  faced  the  lions  or  the  rack.  But  perhaps  those 
poor  beggars  who  had  tried  the  lions  or  the  rack  would 
have  preferred  to  substitute  an  announcement  in  the 
Post.  Good  Lord!  The  test  of  a  man  was  in  facing 
his  music  in  whatsoever  form  it  might  come. 


CHAPTER    XLI 

SACCHARIN 

LOWOOD  was  back  again  in  harness.  Scarcely  was  one 
patient  out  of  his  hands  before  he  had  another.  This 
time  the  case  was  wholly  ugly  and  made  no  appeal  to 
his  romantic  sentiments. 

Legh,  before  the  Hummerstones  returned,  had 
packed  up  his  guns  and  had  gone  off  disgusted  to 
shoot  big  game.  (Alas  for  it  that  men  frequently 
seek  scapegoats  for  their  large  emotions  in  these  fine 
creatures!)  He  was  convinced,  he  told  Lowood,  that 
he  could  not  have  kept  his  hands  from  the  bounder. 
As  for  Joan,  he  hoped  never  again  to  see  her  face. 

Hestroyde  at  this  time  appeared  never  to  be  at  home 
when  called  upon,  nor  to  be  out  when  others  were 
abroad. 

Lowood  was  thrown  therefore  a  good  deal  upon  the 
Hummerstones  for  society,  a  compulsion  he  found  less 
distasteful  since  Alma  had  become  an  inmate  of  the 
house. 

"  Bless  my  soul !  "  he  told  Cyril  one  day  when  he 
was  calling  at  the  Cottage,  "  what  has  come  to  you  ? 
You're  getting  as  thin  as  a  rake.  You  look  like  white 
paper.  You'd  better  knock  off  or  you'll  be  going  to 
pieces." 

In  a  minute  the  man  was  trembling  like  a  leaf,  his 
eyes  going  this  way  and  that,  his  face  a  sickly  green. 

"Knock  off?"  he  blurted  savagely.  "I'm  not 
drinking." 

"Really?" 

"  I  swear  I'm  not." 


348  The  Whips  of  Time 

"Then  what  is  it?" 

"  There's  nothing,"  he  insisted,  almost  shouting. 
"  I'm  perfectly  fit.  Hang  it !  what  do  you  want  to 
scare  a  man  for?  I'm  as  fit  as  possible.  What  d'you 
want  to  scare  a  man  for  ?  " 

Lowood  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  Oh,  all  right,"  he  said,  "  if  you  feel  all  right.  I 
only  meant  to  give  you  a  word  in  time." 

"  I  don't  want  words  in  time  or  out  of  it,"  Hum- 
merstone  growled  with  stupid  heat ;  "  nothing  upsets 
me  like  being  told  I'm  ill.  And  I  tell  you  I'm  as  strong 
as  a  horse.  Why  shouldn't  I  be?  In  this  dull  hole 
of  a  place  there's  nothing  to  make  me  anything  else, 
going  to  bed  with  the  lamb  and  getting  up  with  the 
lark." 

Lowood  was  sorry  he  had  spoken.  Yet  the  man 
was  so  obviously  ill  that  he  could  not  have  supposed 
that  to  be  told  so  would  be  news  to  him.  He  seemed 
strangely  affected  by  the  warning.  His  complexion 
retained  for  the  rest  of  his  visit  the  same  sickly  hue. 
Lowood  saw  him  surreptitiously  go  to  the  glass  at 
which  he  had  once  gaily  adjusted  a  buttonhole,  and 
examine  his  face  with  scared  looks,  even  thrust  out  and 
inspect  his  tongue. 

He  turned  round  blustering. 

"  I'm  all  right,"  he  protested  again.  "  As  strong 
as  a  horse."  He  rubbed  his  cheeks  briskly.  "  I've 
got  quite  a  colour." 

"  Oh,  well,"  Lowood  said,  "  you  must  know  best, 
of  course,  how  you  are." 

The  young  man  stretched  a  long  leg  on  which  a 
trouser  obviously  bagged. 

"  Perhaps  I'm  a  bit  off  my  food  and  a  trifle  thinner. 
But  that's  a  good  sign.  A  chap  of  my  age  oughtn't 
to  be  too  fat." 

Polly,  who  had  edged  to  the  nearest  corner  of  her 
cage  and  was  blinking  her  eyes  in  silent  ecstasy  upon 
this  heroic  creature  of  her  fancy,  now  said  gently : 


Saccharin  349 

"  Kiss  me !   Kiss  me !   Kiss  me,  quick !  " 

At  the  first  sound,  not  realising  whence  it  came, 
Hummerstone  started  and  stared  round.  Then  seeing 
her,  in  a  fit  of  ungovernable  fury  he  caught  up  an 
antimacassar,  rolled  it  into  a  ball  and  flung  it  at  her 
cage. 

"  You  old  fool !  "  he  said,  "  you  made  me  jump." 

Polly,  unused  to  such  violence,  and  greatly  alarmed, 
fluttered  up  and  down  her  cage,  uttering  discordant 
shrieks. 

"  Oh,  stop  her !  Great  Scott !  stop  her,"  Hummer- 
stone  shouted.  He  clapped  his  hands  to  his  ears.  He 
seemed  beside  himself.  "  She'll  drive  me  mad.  My 
nerves  are  perfectly  rotten.  I  tell  you  she  will  drive 
me  mad."  He  began  to  stamp  wildly  up  and  down 
the  little  room. 

Lowood,  seeing  his  disordered  state,  quietly  carried 
the  cage  into  another  room. 

When  he  returned  his  visitor  had  dropped  into  a 
chair  and  sat  staring  before  him. 

"  I  say,"  he  broke  out  in  alarm,  "  I  suppose  I 
must  be  out  of  sorts.  I  never  used  to  have  nerves. 
Now  I  shake  at  everything.  What  do  you  think  it 
is?" 

Lowood  made  some  professional  inquiries. 

"  Look  here,"  Hummerstone  said,  when  these  had 
led  to  nothing,  "  do  you  think  saccharin  could  have 
anything  to  do  with  it  ?  Perhaps  it  doesn't  suit  every- 
body. Did  you  ever  hear  of  any  one  being  poisoned 
by  saccharin,  for  instance  ?  " 

Lowood  reassured  him.  Upon  which  he  reverted 
to  his  former  blustering  confidence.  He  was  perfectly 
well.  Perhaps  he'd  been  smoking  too  much.  Perhaps 
he  ought  to  cut  tea. 

Lowood  did  not  know  what  to  make  of  him.  Obvi- 
ously there  was  something  wrong. 

He  showed  blank  with  disappointment  when  Lo- 
wood explained  that  he  could  not  give  tea  to  him. 


350  The  Whips  of  Time 

He  had  promised  to  drink  tea  with  the  Tempests.  He 
must  set  out  immediately. 

"  Oh,  I  say,"  Hummerstone  protested,  "  I  reckoned 
on  getting  tea  here.  Joan  gives  us  such  beastly  muck. 
I  can't  stand  Joan's  tea  and  coffee." 

But  Lowood  must  start  at  once. 

"  I  have  to  offer  my  congratulations,"  he  explained. 
"  You've  heard,  I  suppose,  that  Hestroyde  has  en- 
gaged himself  to  Molly  Tempest." 

Here  now  was  news  for  Hummerstone.  He  forgot 
about  tea.  Here  now  was  news  to  carry  home  to  Joan. 
He  rubbed  his  large  soft  hands.  Something  to  avenge 
his  grievances. 

He  chuckled  blandly. 

"  Molly  is  the  second  one,  isn't  she  ?  A  little  red- 
haired,  pudding-faced  creature  ?  " 

"  She  is  a  nice,  fresh,  lively  little  girl,"  Lowood 
defended  her.  Poor  man !  —  or  happy  man !  who  saw 
the  whole  sex  through  rose-coloured  spectacles. 

Hummerstone  almost  ran  home.  He  was  in  a  panic 
lest  somebody  should  call  and  should  tell  Joan  the 
news  before  he  could.  He  wanted  to  see  her  face 
when  she  should  hear  it. 

Nobody  had  been.  She  was  unwarned,  her  feelings 
lying  bare  for  laceration.  When  Alma  had  come 
down,  come  down  with  the  flushed  cheeks  and  shining 
eyes  of  literary  inspiration  ( for  her  pen  was  beginning 
to  move  of  itself),  he  began  his  attack. 

First,  however,  he  cast  some  odious  glances  of  com- 
parison between  the  two,  odious  to  Alma  whom  they 
were  intended  to  flatter,  odious  to  Joan  whom  they 
were  meant  to  disparage.  By  Jove!  Jonah  seemed 
to  go  off  more  and  more  each  day.  Soon  she'd  be  an 
absolute  fright.  Her  dull  air  even  robbed  her  supple 
figure  of  all  grace.  A  nice  thing  truly  for  a  man  of 
his  taste  to  find  himself  tied  up  to  a  plain  woman! 
This  Miss  Wenlith  was  quite  a  daisy.  He  had  never 
suspected  that  a  clever  woman  could  be  so  attractive. 


Saccharin  351 

It  would  be  worth  trying  to  discover  if  she  were  as 
innocent  as  she  looked.  Very  few  women  were.  And 
she  was  Mrs.  Beaumont's  niece. 

Then  he  proceeded  to  the  business  on  hand. 

"  I  say,  Jonah !  "  he  said,  when  his  wife  had  taken 
her  place  at  the  tea-table  —  her  place  at  the  tea-table 
exposed  her  face  to  the  full  light  and  to  his  gaze  — 
"  I  say,  guess  who's  engaged." 

"  Oh,  Lady  Henson  and  Major  Piper,  I  suppose," 
she  said  tonelessly.  "  It  has  been  coming  these  three 
years." 

She  made  several  guesses  and  failures.  All  at  once 
her  face  became  like  white  paper.  A  stricken  look 
came  to  her  eyes.  She  knew.  And  she  writhed  in 
heart  beneath  the  harrow  of  his  mean,  triumphant 
gaze. 

"  Who  to  ?  "  she  demanded  in  a  sharp  breath. 

"  Why,"  he  said  with  pretended  astonishment,  "  you 
haven't  guessed  the  man's  name  yet." 

A  red  blotch,  like  a  backwater  of  bad  blood,  stood 
out  suddenly  on  her  cheek.  Her  green  eyes  showed 
scored  by  his  harrow. 

After  a  painful  silence  she  said,  dragging  a  cloak 
of  smoothness  over  her  shivering  voice  as  one  covers 
shameful  rags : 

"  I  thought  it  might  be  Mark  Hestroyde." 

"  It  is  Hestroyde,"  Hummerstone  said,  and 
chuckled.  "  Hestroyde  the  inconsolable.  You  thought 
he'd  never  get  over  it." 

Her  stiff  lips  framed  a  question.     No  sound  came. 

"  What  are  you  muttering?  "  he  asked. 

Then,  as  she  did  not  answer,  her  eyes  seeming  to 
be  red-flecked  with  rage  or  with  blood,  he  added  airily : 

"  He's  going  to  marry  that  little  red-haired  Molly 
Tempest,  the  one  with  the  large  waist.  She's  got  a 
deuced  good  complexion,  though." 

Alma  sat  on  tenter-hooks  for  her  friend.  Why  she 
had  discarded  Hestroyde  and  had  married  this  man 


352  The  Whips  of  Time 

was  a  ceaseless  problem  to  her.  But  an  intuitive 
knowledge  and  sympathy  told  her  now  that  she  was 
in  the  presence  of  a  tortured  soul,  of  a  soul  weltering 
in  blood  and  fire. 

Yet  she  could  say  nothing,  do  nothing,  without  add- 
ing the  further  pain  of  exposure  to  her  friend's  suf- 
fering. 

She  threw  Hummerstone  some  angry  glances.  She 
wished  she  had  been  a  man,  that  she  might  have  taken 
him  by  the  shoulders  and  put  him  from  the  room.  A 
lump  rose  in  her  throat  as  two  large  tears,  despite  her 
efforts,  forced  themselves  into  Joan's  eyes  and  trickled 
down  her  dull  face. 

There  was  no  squabble  this  time  about  the  tabloids. 
Joan  had  other  occupation  for  her  thoughts.  She 
sweetened  his  tea  from  the  sugar-basin. 

That  evening  at  dinner,  while  he  was  eating  a  third 
helping  of  trifle,  a  sweet  which  was  made  expressly  for 
him,  Hummerstone  turned  white,  set  down  his  spoon 
and  violently  pushed  back  his  chair  from  the  table. 

"  There's  that  loathsome  saccharin  in  it,"  he  pro- 
tested, "  I  can  taste  the  beastly  bitter  of  it.  What  has 
that  damned  cook  been  up  to?  " 

Joan  glanced  over  at  him  with  her  ugly  smile. 

"  Oh,  has  she  put  too  much  ?  "  she  said  smoothly. 
"  I  gave  her  the  bottle  of  tabloids.  Perhaps  I  ought 
to  have  sweetened  it  myself." 

"  Well,  I'm  going  to  be  sick,"  he  said  coarsely,  and 
flung  out  of  the  room. 


CHAPTER    XUI 

ILLNESS 

IN  the  small  hours  of  the  morning1  Lowood  was  called 
up.  Mr.  Hummerstone  was  dangerously  ill.  He 
begged  that  his  godfather  would  go  at  once  to  him. 

Lowood  found  him  collapsed.  He  had  been  suffer- 
ing all  night  from  violent  pains  and  sickness.  His 
face  was  green,  his  voice  a  mere  thread  of  terror. 

"  I'm  dying,"  he  said,  "  I've  been  poisoned.  I 
haven't  an  hour  to  live." 

He  raised  himself  upon  an  elbow,  his  face  bedewed 
with  moisture.  His  eyes  went  round  the  room,  peering 
frightened  into  the  shadows. 

"  For  Heaven's  sake,"  he  entreated,  "  don't  let  her 
come  near  me.  Don't  let  her  touch  anything  I  eat 
or  drink.  For  weeks  she's  been  poisoning  me  with 
her  infernal  tabloids." 

Lowood  supposed  his  mind  to  be  unhinged  by  his 
condition.  Hummerstone's  medical  knowledge  was 
doubtless  slight,  yet  had  he  been  sane  he  would  have 
known  that  men  were  not  poisoned  by  saccharin.  Nor 
did  sane  men  suspect  that  they  were  being  poisoned. 

"  Give  me  antidotes  for  arsenic,"  Hummerstone 
urged  frantically.  "  One  day  she  took  a  bottle  labelled 
'  Arsenic  '  from  her  pocket.  She  thought  I  didn't  see 
it." 

All  this,  of  course,  Lowood  regarded  as  mere  ra- 
ving. He  administered  the  remedies  for  which  the 
case  called,  and  when  these  had  relieved  the  symptoms 
he  left,  promising  to  look  in  later. 

In  the  evening,  to  his  astonishment,  he  found  the 


354  The  Whips  of  Time 

elder  Hummerstone  there.  Cyril  had  wired  for  him. 
Lowood  saw  that  he  was  strangely  agitated.  He 
closed  the  door  of  the  room  in  which  they  were  and 
faced  Lowood  with  an  air  of  gravity. 

"  We  must  get  him  away  at  once,"  he  insisted. 
"  She  is  poisoning  him." 

"Who?"  Lowood  asked,  amazed. 

"  His  wife.  He  has  all  the  symptoms  of  arsenical 
poisoning.  He  has  seen  arsenic  in  her  possession. 
After  they  left  me  I  missed  a  bottle  of  arsenic  from 
the  laboratory.  The  whole  time  she  was  with  me  I 
could  not  keep  her  away  from  the  poisons.  She  talked 
of  nothing  else." 

Lowood  scoffed. 

"  My  dear  man,"  he  said,  "  it's  a  parcel  of  rubbish. 
You're  bothered  about  Cyril  and  you've  let  him  scare 
you.  I  tell  you  it's  only  raving  on  his  part.  He's  in 
a  panic  about  himself.  It's  just  a  bad  gastric  attack. 
He  eats  all  sorts  of  things." 

While  he  talked  Hummerstone  stalked  up  and  down 
the  room.  At  intervals  he  raised  a  cold,  protesting 
hand.  When  Lowood  had  finished  he  stepped  in  front 
of  him. 

"  I  will  tell  you  the  truth,"  he  said.  His  eyes 
dropped.  A  fraction  of  shame  showed  in  them. 

"  She  is  Sarah  Munnings'  daughter.  You  remem- 
ber the  affair  of  the  changed  infants.  It  was  she 
whom  I  substituted  for  Lady  Kesteven's  infant." 

In  all  his  life  Lowood  had  never  experienced  a  blow 
so  levelling  as  this.  He  repeated  to  himself  at  least 
five  times,  as  though  his  consciousness  refused  ad- 
mission to  it,  "  Sarah  Munnings'  daughter !  "  Then, 
when  at  last  his  brain  reacted,  he  said  feebly : 

"  But  it  was  a  son." 

"  No,"  Hummerstone  said,  "  science  is  occasionally 
wrong.  The  infant  turned  out  to  be  a  girl.  Mrs. 
Legh's  infant  was  a  son.  I  was  compelled  therefore 
to  try  my  experiment  upon  Lady  Kesteven." 


Illness  355 

Again  Lowood's  stunned  brain  reacted. 

"  Did  all  the  ladies  of  Scrope-Denton  then  assemble 
at  Thistlewaite's  private  hospital  at  the  same  date 
for  similar  events  ?  " 

"Of  what  consequence  is  it?"  Hummerstone  com- 
mented impatiently.  Then,  seeing  that  to  answer 
would  be  the  readiest  way  of  stopping  the  questioner's 
mouth : 

"  Mrs.  Legh  and  Mrs.  Hestroyde  were  cousins. 
They  came  together.  Lady  Kesteven  was  another 
patient  and  a  stranger  to  them.  I  understand  that 
the  friendship  she  and  Mrs.  Legh  formed  in  the  hos- 
pital caused  her  to  settle  here  later." 

Lowood  laughed  from  mere  foolishness.  For  there 
was  really  nothing  to  laugh  at.  Unless  he  was  laugh- 
ing at  himself.  For  all  of  his  conjectures  had  been 
wrong.  His  house  of  cards,  constructed  on  a  wholly 
false  hypothesis,  had  tumbled  to  the  ground. 

After  all,  Hestroyde  was  not  Munnings.  Nor  was 
Legh.  The  changed  infants  had  been  girls.  And 
Joan  Kesteven  was  Munnings.  Where  then  was  Miss 
Kesteven?  In  a  moment  he  saw  that  she  must  be  as 
a  needle  in  a  hay-rick,  irretrievably  lost.  Twenty-four 
years  of  vicissitudes  would  have  submerged  her  irrev- 
ocably amid  a  submerged  tenth. 

He  forced  himself  violently  out  of  speculations. 
For  here  were  facts.  Hummerstone  had  exchanged 
Sarah  Munnings'  infant  for  Lady  Kesteven's  infant. 
Hummerstone's  son,  attracted  to  Scrope-Denton  by 
Lowood's  presence  (Lowood's  presence  being  a  direct 
consequence  of  Hummerstone's  act),  had  discovered 
the  truth  about  Joan,  and  himself  indifferent  about 
her  origin  and  keen  upon  her  fortune  had,  by  a  threat 
of  exposing  her  to  Hestroyde,  compelled  her  to  marry 
him.  And  here  now  Sarah  Munnings'  daughter  was 
repeating  history  and  was  turning  her  inherited  in- 
stincts of  the  poisoner  upon  her  husband,  so  getting 
back  in  the  boomerang  of  Nemesis  upon  the  elder 


856  The  Whips  of  Time 

Hummerstone,  who  was  originally  responsible  for  all 
the  complications.  In  the  rapid  mental  processes  by 
which  he  unravelled  the  tangle  all  his  sympathy  was 
for  Joan.  He  saw  how  the  shock  of  Hummerstone's 
revelation  and  her  loss  of  Hestroyde  had  changed  her 
whole  character,  had  brought  to  the  surface  and  into 
active  operation  those  latent  impulses  of  which  all 
along  there  had  been  symptoms,  but  which  the  healthy, 
breezy  habits  of  her  happy,  outdoor  life  had  kept  in 
an  unformed,  nebulous  state. 

Had  she  married  the  man  of  her  choice  her  nature 
might  have  been  redeemed.  For  he  was  wise  enough 
to  know  that  development  comes,  not  by  trying  men 
and  women  to  their  utmost,  but  by  keeping  their  range 
of  action  within  the  compass  of  their  better  instincts. 
So,  good  habit  becomes  first  nature. 

Again  Hummerstone  nudged  him  back  to  realities. 

"  For  goodness  sake,"  he  said,  exasperated,  "  don't 
wool-gather.  Tell  me  what  you  think  of  Cyril's 
chances." 

"  One  moment,"  Lowood  insisted.  "  How  did  Cyril 
discover  the  truth  ?  You  —  ?  " 

"  No.  Nothing  would  have  induced  me  to  tell  him. 
He  opened  an  old  dispatch-box  which  contained  my 
notes  of  the  case.  He  was  looking  for  something  quite 
different." 

Lowood  had  not  thought  badly  enough  of  Cyril's 
state  to  send  for  a  nurse.  The  housekeeper  at  The 
Folly  was  a  motherly  soul,  and  to  her  he  had  entrusted 
the  patient. 

When  he  and  Hummerstone  went  up  to  his  room 
they  found  Joan  there.  She  stood  leaning  upon  the 
rail  at  the  end  of  his  bed,  her  green  eyes,  filled  with 
basilisk  evil,  fixed  upon  him,  her  face  as  wicked  as 
could  be. 

He  lay  staring  at  her  in  a  state  of  collapse,  his  eyes 
hypnotised  by  her  basilisk  gaze,  while  he  kept  all  the 
while  screaming  in  a  horrid  undertone. 


Illness  357 

She  seemed  to  have  been  taunting  and  mocking  him. 
Her  lids  were  narrowed  to  two  evil  slits,  her  brows 
flattened.  Her  voice  had  a  repulsive  silkiness. 

Lowood  was  appalled  at  the  face  she  turned  upon 
him.  It  brightened  slowly.  She  had  always  liked 
him.  But  she  did  not  give  him  her  hand.  She  turned 
back  to  her  task  of  torture. 

She  pointed  a  gibing  finger  at  her  husband  cower- 
ing in  his  bed  and  still  screaming  in  that  awful  under- 
tone as  though  he  were  too  terrified  to  cry  outright. 

"  Do  you  see  what  a  cur  I  have  married  ?  "  she  said. 
"  He  is  as  timid  as  a  rabbit  and  afraid  of  straws.  He 
is  mad  with  cowardice.  And  what  do  you  think  he 
says?  He  says  that  I  am  poisoning  him."  She 
laughed  contemptuously.  "  Poisoning  him  with  sac- 
charin tabloids.  You  know  that  saccharin  isn't  poi- 
sonous. And  all  because  I  will  not  have  a  fat  husband. 
I  like  men  lithe  and  slim  and  fit,  men  who  are  afraid 
of  nothing.  Dark  men  with  fire  in  their  eyes,  not 
rag-dolls  stuffed  with  pink  sawdust." 

The  effect  of  her  words,  of  her  scorn,  of  her  looks, 
of  her  pointing  finger  upon  the  wretched  creature  in 
the  bed  was  appalling.  His  eyes,  glassy  and  staring, 
were  wholly  dominated  by  her.  He  could  not  turn 
them  from  her. 

As  before,  the  elder  Hummerstone  avoided  looking 
at  or  speaking  to  her.  But  even  his  chill  impassive- 
ness  found  the  situation  insupportable.  He  put  up  his 
hands  to  his  ears  to  shut  out  the  sound  of  his  son's 
insane,  horrid  screaming. 

Lowood  crossed  the  room  and  caught  her  by  an 
arm. 

"  Mrs.  Hummerstone,"  he  said,  in  a  tone  of  au- 
thority, "  I  must  insist  upon  your  leaving  the  room. 
Otherwise  I  will  not  answer  for  your  husband's  life. 
He  is  not  in  a  state  to  bear  such  treatment." 

She  hesitated.     Then  she  yielded. 

"  Oh,  I'll  go,"  she  said.     "  It  makes  me  mad  to 


358  The  Whips  of  Time 

think  I  have  married  such  a  creature  when  I  might  —  " 
She  caught  herself  up.  "  It  makes  me  mad  to  think 
I  have  married  such  a  creature,"  she  repeated. 

At  the  door  she  turned,  her  features  tense  with 
fury. 

"  Dr.  Lowood,"  she  cried  in  a  loud  voice,  "  I  accuse 
these  men,  this  father  and  son,"  (she  indicated  them 
with  a  fierce  gesture)  "  of  ruining  my  life,  of  ruining 
my  nature,  of  turning  me  into  a  devil." 

She  closed  the  door  vehemently  after  her. 

It  took  Lowood  long  to  quiet  and  to  restore  his 
patient.  He  assured  him  that  he  and  his  father  would 
remain  with  him.  To  his  abject  reiterated  appeals 
he  promised  again  and  again  that  all  his  food  should 
be  prepared  under  supervision.  Professor  Hummer- 
stone  had  already  telegraphed  for  two  nurses. 

Lowood,  for  his  part,  did  not  know  what  to  make 
of  it.  The  whole  situation  might  have  been  created 
by  the  man's  own  terrors,  excited  by  his  really  serious 
gastric  symptoms.  At  the  same  time  it  was  evident 
that  Joan,  in  the  mood  in  which  he  had  seen  her,  would 
have  been  capable  of  poisoning  half  a  dozen  persons. 

At  all  events  no  sick  man,  nor  any  man,  was  to  be 
allowed  to  take  such  chances. 

Professor  Hummerstone  was  an  expert  chemist. 
Before  the  day  was  out,  wholly  to  his  astonishment 
and  somewhat  to  Lowood's,  he  reported  that  there 
was  not  the  faintest  trace  of  any  sort  of  poison  to 
be  found  about  the  patient.  Again  and  again  he  tested 
for  it.  Always  with  the  same  result.  Cyril's  attack 
was  idiopathically  gastric.  His  own  food  excesses 
were  responsible  for,  although  no  doubt  his  fears 
had  aggravated  it. 

Cyril  confessed  that  for  a  month  he  had  suspected 
Joan  of  poisoning  him.  Her  words,  her  looks,  her 
conduct  with  the  tabloids  had  been  damningly  sus- 
picious. Combined  with  her  family  history,  her  forced 


Illness  359 

marriage,  and  her  aversion  to  him,  he  could  not  doubt 
it. 

The  chemical  tests  were  confirmed  by  the  fact  that 
from  the  hour  he  became  convinced  that  there  was  no 
poison  his  sickness  and  pain  ceased.  He  lost  his  ter- 
rors. He  made  flesh.  Soon  he  was  wholly  ashamed 
of  his  fears  and  ready  to  laugh  at  them. 

In  a  few  days  he  was  up,  swaggering  and  hector- 
ing about  the  house  with  all  his  old  assurance.  With 
more  than  that  indeed,  being  anxious  to  efface  the 
impression  of  his  baseless  terrors. 

"  I  was  hugely  alarmed,"  the  elder  Hummerstone 
confessed  to  Lowood.  "  As  you  know,  I  have  never 
put  faith  in  the  doctrine  of  heredity.  But  I  thought 
this  might  be  an  exception,  or  that  the  revelation  of 
her  origin  might  have  affected  my  daughter-in-law's 
mind.  One  sees  now  she  was  only  playing  on  his  fears. 
And  I  must  admit  she  overdid  the  part.  Poisoners 
do  not  parade  their  doings  as  did  she." 

This,  too,  was  Joan's  story. 

"  I  did  it  to  torture  him,"  she  said.  "  I  like  to 
torture  him.  He  and  his  father  have  spoilt  my  life 
and  have  turned  me  into  a  devil." 

Lowood  admitted  to  himself  that  a  little  torturing 
would  do  his  dutiful  godson  no  great  harm,  although 
he  wished  her  retaliation  had  taken  a  less  ingeniously 
wicked  form. 

He  resumed  the  normal  tenor  of  his  days.  Even 
had  she  harboured  an  intention  of  repeating  her  moth- 
er's tricks,  she  would  not  now  dare  to  do  so,  seeing 
that  all  were  on  their  guard  against  her. 


CHAPTER    XLIII 

A   BOX    OF    CHOCOLATES 

ALMA'S  cup  of  misery  was  not  yet  full,  although  she 
had  believed  that  nobody  before  had  suffered  as  she 
had  done  since  that  disastrous  night  on  which  she  had 
learned  Burghwallis'  treachery. 

The  highest  places  of  her  nature  had  seemed  to  her 
to  be  too  poor,  too  mean  in  which  to  shrine  him.  It 
had  been  at  the  same  time  her  anguish  and  her  joy  that 
she  had  had  nothing  but  herself  to  give  to  him,  anguish 
because  the  gift  appeared  so  humble,  joy  that  he  asked 
nothing  else. 

In  the  exaggerated  language  of  the  young,  ingenu- 
ous heart  she  had  told  herself  that  had  she  been 
Empress  of  the  world  and  he  a  scullion  in  her  palace 
she  would  have  joyed  to  set  him  beside  her  as  her 
king-consort. 

Her  regret  had  been  that  all  the  generosity  should 
be  his,  that  she  only  should  be  the  recipient.  And  then 
the  castle  had  tumbled  about  her  ears  in  shock  and 
mortification. 

The  grocer's  boy  at  the  village  shop  who  offered  to 
his  sweetheart  humble,  honourable  marriage  did  the 
girl  more  honour  than  her  well-beloved  had  planned 
for  her.  For  the  grocer's  boy  offered  his  best.  He 
did  not  say,  "  Give  me  all  in  return  for  a  light  place 
in  the  eyes  of  the  world."  He  did  not  shirk  his  man's 
responsibility. 

She  did  not  know  of  course,  as  Burghwallis  did,  that 
there  was  more  than  one  great  lady  who  would  eagerly 
have  accepted  his  terms.  She  had  no  suspicion  that 


A  Box  of  Chocolates  361 

undeviating  virtue  is  regarded  by  a  number  of  persons 
as  demode.  It  would  not  have  affected  her  views.  Her 
mind  was  clear  and  simple,  and  by  the  light  of  its 
candour  she  made  her  own  standards  of  conduct. 

Nor  when  in  answer  to  her  letter  acquainting  Mrs. 
Beaumont  with  her  change  of  dwelling,  since,  as  she 
told  her,  she  could  not  be  dependent  on  Lord  Anthony, 
Mrs.  Beaumont's  reply  dealt  a  last  staggering  blow  to 
her  pride  and  self-respect,  were  her  views  upon  conduct 
affected. 

Perhaps  in  a  measure  it  condoned  Burghwallis' 
action.  For  Mrs.  Beaumont's  letter  made  it  clear  that 
both  he  and  the  Duke  had  known  all  along  that  Mrs. 
Beaumont  was  sister,  and  Alma  child,  of  a  certain 
notorious  murderess  who  many  years  before  had  been 
convicted  of  murder  and  sentenced  to  death.  Alma 
felt  stunned,  turned  to  stone.  Had  any  miserable  being 
ever  known  such  shame?  She  realised  bitterly  that 
Burghwallis  could  not  of  course  have  married  her. 
But  yet,  in  pity  for  her  shame,  might  he  not  have 
refrained  from  adding  to  it? 

But  the  revelation  did  not,  as  Mrs.  Beaumont  had 
meant  it  to  do,  destroy  her  last  remnant  of  self-respect. 
Rather  it  reinforced  it.  That  she  was  of  criminal 
origin  was  surely  the  more  reason  for  resisting  un- 
flinchingly every  inherited  bad  tendency. 

She  fell  back  upon  her  work.  "  Blessed  be  Drudg- 
ery," indeed!  She  was  thankful  that  its  compulsions 
made  a  refuge  from  her  miseries  and  strengthened  her 
powers  against  these  overwhelming  griefs. 

To  add  to  her  troubles,  Hummerstone  now  began  to 
persecute  her  with  underbred  attentions. 

One  ray  of  comfort  cheered  her  sombre  outlook. 

Her  diatribe  upon  the  treachery  of  man  had  been 
accepted  by  the  editor  of  a  popular  paper.  He  offered 
her  two  guineas  for  it  —  poor  pay  enough,  but  because 
it  was  the  way  to  independence  it  appeared  to  her  to 
be  munificent.  Further,  he  asked  for  more  such 


362  The  Whips  of  Time 

diatribes.    There  had  been  "  grip  "  in  it,  he  said.    And 
"  grip  "  was  what  he  wanted. 

Since  Hummerstone's  illness  the  saccharin  squabbles 
had  ceased.  Joan,  for  some  reason,  appeared  to  have 
lost  interest  in  her  husband's  gain  or  diminution  of 
flesh. 

Lowood  found  himself  smiling  grimly  over  the 
strangest  action  he  remembered  having  committed 
during  a  lifetime  of  actions  as  strange  as  those  common 
to  man. 

To  anybody  who  had  witnessed  it  he  would  have 
seemed  guilty  of  the  meanness  of  robbing  a  child  of 
a  handsome  and  highly-prized  box  of  sweets. 

It  happened  at  a  bazaar  given  in  aid  of  some  local 
charity.  Joan,  among  other  Scrope-Denton  ladies,  had 
undertaken  a  stall. 

For  the  first  time  Hestroyde  and  his  betrothed  were 
seen  in  public  together.  She  was  very  young  and  very 
crude,  very  red-haired  and  milk-and-white  complex- 
ioned.  And  she  did  not  know  what  in  the  world  to 
say  to  him  nor  he  to  her.  But  he  walked  her  about 
with  an  air  of  flaunting  her  and  his  happiness  in  the 
face  of  his  neighbours.  Lowood,  seeing  his  ill-acted 
role  of  devoted  lover,  and  detecting  the  bored  irritation 
underlying  it,  knew  that  his  engagement  to  this  simple 
hoyden  had  been  a  mere  rash  attempt  to  prove  that  his 
jilted  affections  had  quickly  found  solace. 

During  the  afternoon,  Lowood,  burdened  with  such 
a  heterogeneous  assortment  of  things  for  which  he  had 
no  use,  as  is  the  lot  of  men  who  brave  bazaars,  came 
across  Molly  bearing  a  great  box  of  bonbons  tied  up 
with  yellow  ribbons. 

She  held  them  to  him  for  inspection. 

"  Joan  Hummerstone  gave  them  to  me  without  me 
asking  for  them  or  paying  anything  for  them.  Wasn't 
it  sweet  of  her?  She  just  beckoned  me  to  her  stall  and 
simply  made  me  take  them.  She  knows  I  love  choco- 


A  Box  of  Chocolates  363 

lates.  And  of  course,"  she  added  crudely,  "  it  was 
doubly  sweet  of  her  under  the  circumstances." 

She  laughed  hoydenishly. 

In  view  of  recent  revelations  and  events  Lowood 
experienced  a  sense  of  shock.  It  was  as  though  every 
mental  and  physical  process  stopped  still  in  him  to  ask 
a  question.  Then  he  was  overwhelmed  with  shame. 
Poor  wretch!  poor  wretch!  would  he  ever  again  do 
her  justice? 

And  yet  for  the  life  of  him  he  could  not  let  the  child 
go  out  of  his  sight  to  eat  her  chocolates  and  take  her 
chances  —  the  chances  of  chocolates  Sarah  Munnings' 
girl  had  pressed  upon  her  successful  rival. 

With  an  intolerable  sense  of  responsibility  (and  of 
meanness)  he  followed  her  about,  dogging  her  foot- 
steps, until  at  last  he  found  his  opportunity.  She  laid 
down  her  box  upon  the  corner  of  a  stall,  lured  into  a 
shooting-gallery  to  try  her  skill. 

Then  Lowood,  with  a  guilty  glance  all  round,  care- 
lessly threw  over  the  box  a  child's  embroidered  pinafore 
which  somebody  had  forced  him  to  buy.  When  pres- 
ently he  picked  up  and  carried  off  the  pinafore  he 
picked  up  the  box  with  it.  He  congratulated  himself 
upon  the  adroitness  with  which  he  had  committed  his 
first  theft.  But  as  he  escaped  from  the  place  with  the 
fruits  of  it  he  hoped,  in  the  interests  of  morality,  that 
all  thieves  felt  as  mean  as  he  did. 

He  could  not  bring  himself  to  put  his  suspicions  to 
the  test.  Without  opening  it  he  thrust  the  box  with 
its  alluring  ribbons  into  the  first  running  ditch  he 
passed.  He  went  home  with  a  sense  of  being  a  sus- 
picious worm. 

Yet  he  dared  not  have  done  less.  A  night  or  two 
before  he  had  been  refreshing  his  memory  by  a  perusal 
of  the  Sarah  Munnings  case. 


CHAPTER    XLIV 

NEMESIS 

A  SECOND  time  Burnham  requisitioned  Lowood's  serv- 
ices. He  begged  him  to  see  Hummerstone  without 
delay.  "  He  seems  mortally  ill,"  he  said.  "  I  confess 
myself  wholly  at  sea." 

Lowood,  having  seen  him,  was  at  sea  too.  He  had 
never  known  a  case  resembling  it.  The  patient  lay  in 
a  comatose  state,  from  which  he  was  aroused  with 
difficulty.  When  at  last  he  dimly  recognised  Lowood 
he  muttered  dully : 

"  She's  got  me  this  time." 

Yet  there  were  no  symptoms  which  pointed  to  any 
known  poison. 

Going  downstairs  Lowood's  attention  was  caught  by 
a  slight  sound  as  he  passed  the  half -opened  door  of  the 
music-room.  He  pushed  it  open  and  went  in.  Joan 
had  been  peering  through  the  crack,  with  the  intention, 
he  suspected,  of  noting  his  face  as  he  passed.  Coming 
upon  her  unexpectedly  she  had  no  time  to  drop  a  guard 
upon  her  looks.  They  sickened  him  to  see.  Cyril  was 
right.  Somehow  or  other  she  had  "  got "  him  this 
time. 

The  guilt  in  her  face  was  replaced  by  concealment, 
by  fear.  She  rallied  beneath  his  gaze. 

"  I  hope  my  husband  is  not  seriously  ill,"  she  said 
with  slow  care,  as  though  she  were  weighing  out  her 
tones  and  words  by  grains. 

"  He  is  gravely  ill,"  was  Lowood's  answer. 

"Will  he  die?" 

She  drew  in  her  breath  with  a  slight  whistling  sound. 


Nemesis  365 

"  Oh,  I  hope  not,"  he  said. 

"What  — is  — it?" 

"  That  I  cannot  say  —  at  present.  I  must  telegraph 
for  his  father." 

She  made  a  gesture  of  protest. 

"  No,"  she  cried  under  her  breath,  "  I  cannot  bear 
the  man." 

He  insisted.  Cyril  was  the  physiologist's  only  son. 
Should  he  die  Hummerstone  would  never  forgive  him 
for  having  failed  to  summon  him. 

Before  he  could  arrive  the  case  had  cleared  itself  up. 
The  terrible  "  pustule  "of  anthrax  had  developed. 

After  some  hours  of  grave  suffering  the  patient 
passed  into  a  state  of  delirium  and  collapse.  Life 
became  now  a  question  of  hours. 

Despite  its  appalling  nature,  it  must  be  confessed 
that  this  development  was  a  source  of  great  mental 
relief  to  Lowood.  From  the  moment  he  had  detected 
her  crouching  behind  the  door  he  had  been  impressed 
with  a  conviction  of  Joan's  guilt. 

But  the  case  was  now  clear.  Cyril  had  somehow 
fallen  a  victim  to  this  rare  and  terrible  disease,  a  dis- 
ease of  the  lower  animals  which  is  occasionally  con- 
tracted by  such  men  as  hide-sorters  and  others  who 
came  into  contact  with  diseased  animals  and  with  their 
remains. 

How  Hummerstone  could  have  come  by  it  was  a 
puzzle.  But  that  was  a  light  matter  compared  with 
Lowood's  first  fear. 

The  elder  Hummerstone  arrived  in  time  to  see  his 
son  die,  to  see  the  cracked,  muttering  lips  in  the  face 
disfigured  beyond  recognition  by  the  loathsome  pustule 
grow  feebler  and  feebler,  to  hear  the  deep,  stertorous 
breathing  and  senseless  moaning  grow  shallower,  until 
they  ceased  altogether,  to  see  the  big  worthless  fellow 
yield  up  his  profitless  existence. 

He  did  not  regain  consciousness.  The  words,  "  She 
has  got  me  this  time,"  with  which  he  had  greeted 


366  The  Whips  of  Time 

Lowood  were  his  last  coherent  ones.  And  these  Lo- 
wood  refrained  from  repeating  to  his  father. 

All  feeling  had  passed  in  him  save  that  of  pity  for 
the  man,  worthless  though  he  had  been,  who  had  come 
by  this  awful  death,  and  sympathy  for  his  old  friend 
who  had  lost  his  only  human  tie. 

Having  watched  to  the  end,  he  turned  in  silence, 
intending  to  leave  Hummerstone  alone  with  his  dead. 

He  had  not  reached  the  door  before  the  scientist  was 
standing  by  him.  His  face  showed  no  grief  —  nothing 
but  an  appalling  vindictiveness. 

He  went  out  with  him. 

"  I  have  something  to  say  to  my  son's  wife,"  he  said 
in  a  voice  of  iron.  "  I  wish  to  say  it  in  your  presence." 

Lowood  had  a  horrible  premonition  of  trouble. 
They  went  downstairs  together. 

"  Where  is  your  mistress  ?  "  Hummerstone  asked  of 
a  servant. 

"  In  the  library,  sir." 

In  the  same  iron  voice  Hummerstone  resumed: 
"  Send  at  once  to  the  nearest  police-station  for  two 
constables." 

The  man  stared. 

"Did  I  hear  you  right,  sir?  Did  you  say  'Con- 
stables,' sir?" 

"  I  said,  '  Send  at  once  to  the  nearest  police-station 
for  two  constables,'  "  Hummerstone  repeated  harshly. 

As  the  man  shot  off  with  a  scared  face  Lowood 
stopped. 

"  Hummerstone,  what  are  you  about?  " 

"  Come  with  me,"  the  other  said,  "  and  you  shall 
see." 

Joan  was  sitting  impassive  by  a  window,  her  hands 
in  her  lap,  her  gaze  fixed  on  the  garden.  Alma  stood 
near,  apparently  striving  to  comfort  her. 

Seeing  the  men  enter,  seeing  Hummerstone's  face 
as  he  made  toward  her,  she  half  started  from  her  chair. 
She  put  up  a  hand  as  though  to  ward  him  off. 


Nemesis  367 

Indeed,  Lowood  too  almost  feared,  as  her  father-in- 
law  bore  down  upon  her,  that  he  would  be  called  upon 
to  protect  her  from  violence. 

Hummerstone  however  stopped  short  a  few  paces 
from  her  and  remained  confronting  her.  Alma  took 
her  hand  protectively.  Joan  rose  slowly  from  her 
chair. 

"  My  son  is  dead,"  Hummerstone  said  brutally.  "  I 
accuse  you  of  murdering  him.  I  have  sent  for  the 
police.  When  they  arrive  I  shall  give  you  in  charge." 

She  showed  no  surprise.  One  might  have  thought 
she  had  expected  it.  Her  face  became  leaden  of  tint, 
leaden  and  criminal  and  obstinate.  The  pupils  of  her 
green  eyes  contracted  to  pin  points,  giving  a  singular 
impression  of  a  sudden  tension  and  protrusion  of  the 
green  irides.  Her  brows  seemed  to  flatten  with  a 
repulsive,  snake-like  effect. 

She  drew  in  a  breath  with  a  hissing  sound. 

Then,  "  You  must  be  mad,"  she  said  slowly.  "  You 
will  find  no  trace  of  poison." 

"  My  son  has  died  of  anthrax,"  Hummerstone  said. 
"  He  has  been  exposed  to  no  ordinary  contagion. 
When  you  were  at  my  house  you  questioned  me  time 
and  again  about  the  micro-organisms  of  my  laboratory. 
You  questioned  me  about  cholera,  about  sleeping- 
sickness,  about  anthrax.  After  you  had  gone  I  missed 
a  tube  of  anthrax  bacilli.  I  shall  charge  you  with 
infecting  my  son  with  this  horrible  disease.  I  shall 
charge  you  with  causing  his  death." 

She  quailed.  She  shrank.  She  stretched  her  hands 
to  Lowood. 

"  Dr.  Lowood,"  she  cried,  "  I  appeal  to  you  for 
protection.  For  God's  sake  save  me  from  this  horrible 
humiliation.  If  I  am  Sarah  Munnings'  daughter  I 
have  been  brought  up  a  gentlewoman.  I  cannot  bear 
it.  I  tell  you  I  cannot  bear  this  horrible  shame  of  being 
dragged  to  prison." 

Lowood  attempted  to  comfort  her. 


368  The  Whips  of  Time 

"  Your  innocence  will  shield  you,"  he  insisted.  "  I 
shall  protest  against  your  arrest.  And  you  will  be  able 
to  prove  your  innocence." 

Her  eyes  swept  wildly  to  the  window.  They  showed 
desperate  with  fear. 

"  Let  me  speak  with  you  alone,"  she  besought  him. 
"  I  implore  you  to  come  with  me  and  hear  what  I  have 
to  say." 

In  a  moment  Hummerstone  was  at  the  door,  his 
back  set  to  it. 

"  You  shall  not  stir  from  here  except  in  custody," 
he  said. 

But  Lowood  had  opened  the  casement  window  for 
her  to  pass  out. 

"  You  cannot  detain  her,"  he  told  Hummerstone, 
"  without  the  sanction  of  the  law." 

He  followed  her  swift  pacing  down  the  verandah. 
He  half  expected  her  to  make  for  the  road. 

But  she  turned  into  the  house  by  another  window. 
He  followed  her  upstairs.  She  went  into  a  bedroom, 
which  he  supposed  to  be  hers.  She  flew  to  the 
dressing-table,  and  unlocking  a  drawer  took  out  some- 
thing. 

The  panting  heaving  of  her  chest,  her  gasping 
breath,  quieted.  Her  face  grew  calmer. 

"  Dr.  Lowood,"  she  said  emotionally,  and  for  the 
first  time  there  came  a  gush  of  tears,  "  if  there  is  a  God 
I  pray  to  Him  to  bless  you  for  what  you  have  just  done 
for  me.  You  have  my  eternal,  miserable  gratitude." 

A  sob  choked  her.     She  resumed  : 

"  What  he  says  is  true.  I  smeared  the  anthrax 
stuff  on  Cyril's  razor.  He  cut  himself  last  week.  He 
was  always  cutting  himself,  the  wretched  creature! 
His  hands  shook  like  leaves.  For  three  mornings  I  put 
the  stuff  on  his  razor. 

"  I  couldn't  help  it.  They  drove  me  to  it.  I  am  my 
mother's  daughter.  They  should  have  let  me  alone. 
Mark  would  have  made  a  good  woman  of  me. 


Nemesis  369 

"  Ever  since  I  can  remember  there  has  been  some- 
thing strange  about  me.  I  had  feelings  and  impulses 
I  couldn't  understand.  I  tried  to  master  them.  No- 
body I  knew  did  the  things  I  felt  impelled  to  do.  I 
crushed  them  down  and  mastered  them.  There  was 
Joe  Philbey,  my  groom.  I  knew  it  was  a  low  taste  and 
would  have  disgusted  mother  — "  her  voice  broke 
again.  "  Oh,  it  makes  me  mad  to  think  dear  mother 
isn't  my  mother  at  all.  Professor  Hummerstone  was 
a  fiend  to  play  such  a  trick,  to  play  with  a  life  as  he 
has  done  with  mine,  to  put  it  all  wrong. 

"  I  loathed  myself  for  encouraging  Philbey.  He 
smelt  of  beer.  His  nails  were  dirty.  Half  of  me 
loathed  him,  and  the  other  half  —  I  couldn't  help  it. 

"  And  I've  done  other  things.  It  was  I  who  fired 
the  ricks  that  night.  I  wanted  old  Mark  to  have  the 
money.  I  was  always  fond  of  Mark.  If  there's  a  God 
he  should  have  let  me  marry  old  Mark.  I  was  fond  of 
him.  It  would  have  made  another  woman  of  me. 

"  I  shot  poor  old  Belshazzar  for  snapping  at  him. 
And  the  poor  old  chap  only  licked  my  hand  when  he 
was  dying.  I  could  have  killed  myself.  Dr.  Lowood, 
you  know  things.  You  write  books.  Tell  them  that 
people  are  only  saved  by  good,  by  being  under  good 
influences  and  by  having  persons  good  and  kind  to  them 
and  fond  of  them.  Preaching  and  punishment  are  no 
use. 

"  He  threatened  to  tell  Mark.  And  Mark  wouldn't 
have  married  Sarah  Munnings'  girl.  He  is  so  proud. 
And  he  thought  so  much  of  me.  I  hid  all  the  bad  in 
me  from  him.  He  was  so  surprised  when  he  knew 
about  poor  Belshazzar,  a  sort  of  cold  surprise,  as 
though  he  never  had  evil  impulses  himself.  I  was 
ashamed  for  him  to  know  the  bad  in  me,  I  was  trying 
to  crush  it  all  out.  And  then  that  coward  came  and 
put  everything  wrong.  I  offered  him  half  my  fortune. 
But  there  was  spite  in  it.  Mark  had  thrashed  him  for 
kissing  me  and  he  wanted  to  be  revenged.  And  I 


370  The  Whips  of  Time 

would  have  died  rather  than  old  Mark  should  know  I 
was  the  Munnings  girl." 

There  was  a  sound  in  the  house.  She  started  up  and 
shook  in  every  limb. 

"  They  are  coming,"  she  said  in  an  appalled  whisper, 
"  and  I  have  been  brought  up  a  lady  although  I  am 
the  Munnings  girl." 

She  flung  herself  on  her  knees  at  Lowood's  feet. 
She  clutched  his  knees  desperately.  "  Dr.  Lowood," 
she  cried,  "  I  implore  you  to  keep  it  from  Mark.  I 
couldn't  bear  old  Mark  to  know.  With  my  last  breath 
I  implore  you  to  keep  it  from  old  Mark." 

She  put  up  a  hand  to  her  mouth.  A  smell  of  bitter 
almonds  floated.  Lowood  caught  away  her  hand.  It 
was  too  late.  With  a  half  sob,  her  eyes  staring 
glassily,  she  dropped  in  a  heap  at  his  feet. 

He  lifted  and  carried  her  to  a  couch.  She  was  dead 
before  he  could  lay  her  there.  She  had  turned  to  a  final 
account  her  interest  in  poisons.  Appalled  though  he 
was  he  realised  that  it  was  all  there  had  been  left  to 
her  to  do. 

As  the  smell  of  almonds  strengthened  he  flung  up  all 
the  windows.  He  seized  a  bottle  of  perfume  from  the 
dressing-table  and  dashed  it  on  the  floor.  Then  he 
hurried  downstairs,.  As  he  had  flung  up  the  last 
window  he  had  seen  two  bulky,  uniformed  figures  enter 
the  drive.  He  would  have  time  for  a  word  with 
Hummerstone.  He  returned  to  the  morning-room  to 
find  him  watching  with  vindictive  eagerness  for  the 
approaching  constables.  Alma  was  there  too,  sitting 
with  an  amazed,  frightened  face. 

Lowood  concluded  his  brief  statement  to  Hummer- 
stone  by  saying: 

"  You  have  brought  evil  enough  upon  this  miserable 
house.  The  least  you  can  do  is  to  keep  silence  now 
about  these  deaths.  At  all  events,  I  swear  if  you  speak 
I  will  spread  the  story  of  your  part  in  them  from  the 
housetops." 


Nemesis  371 

He  went  out  and  dismissed  the  constables  and  the 
gaping  crowd  at  their  heels. 

"  Professor  Hummerstone  was  distracted  by  his 
son's  death,"  he  said.  "  Of  course  no  constables  are 
needed." 

Every  tongue  in  Scrope-Denton  was  soon  busy  with 
the  astounding  news.  Mr.  Hummerstone  had  died 
some  awful  death  he  had  got  by  touching  a  farm  beast. 
And  Mrs.  Hummerstone  had  died  of  shock  on  hearing 
of  her  husband's  death.  Which  proved  of  course  that, 
after  all,  she  had  been  fond  of  him,  and  showed  too 
that  she  must  have  had  some  unsuspected  form  of  her 
mother's  heart  disease. 

The  Misses  Epithite  were  the  only  persons  who  were 
not  convinced.  To  the  end  of  their  days  they  were 
assured  that  in  some  mysterious  fashion  their  mys- 
terious tenant  had  had  more  hand  than  their  neigh- 
bours suspected  in  the  strange  sequence  of  events 
which  had  followed  rapidly  upon  his  tenancy  of  Homer 
Cottage.  The  problem  of  what  this  had  been  would 
supply  them  with  food  for  discussion  and  combat  long 
after  the  reader  has  laid  down  and  forgotten  this  book. 

For  I  need  scarcely  point  out  that  the  sisters  took 
diametrically  opposite  views  of  all  but  two  circum- 
stances attending  the  mystery.  One  circumstance  was 
the  exchange  of  Miss  Alma  Kesteven  in  her  cradle 
for  Mrs.  Beaumont's  niece.  (That  it  had  happened 
could  not  be  contested,  because  the  doctor  who  had 
attended  the  lady  had  himself  made  an  affidavit  that 
it  was  true.  As  nobody  in  Scrope-Denton  knew  of 
Sarah  Munnings'  relation  to  Mrs.  Beaumont,  Hes- 
troyde  remained  in  ignorance  of  the  secret  Joan  had 
sacrificed  herself  to  keep  from  him.)  The  second  point 
on  which  the  Misses  Epithite  were  agreed  was  that 
Lowood  was  the  miscreant  who  had  changed  the 
babies. 


CHAPTER    XLV 

THE   LAST 

WHEN  Burghwallis  had  sufficiently  scarified  his  self- 
esteem  with  foretastes  of  the  gossip  of  the  clubs,  had 
sufficiently  tortured  his  soul  by  living  without  word  or 
glimpse  of  Alma,  he  travelled  down  one  day  to  Moon- 
bank  and  called  in  the  afternoon  at  The  Folly. 

When  the  servant  announced  him  she  rose  trembling 
from  her  chair. 

He  remained  at  the  end  of  the  room.  He  was  angry, 
mortified,  embarrassed,  but  most  of  all  in  love.  Other- 
wise, since  man  is  as  he  is,  he  would  not  perhaps  have 
been  there.  It  is  the  only  motive  power  which  men 
permit  to  override  every  other  feeling. 

"  Alma,"  he  said,  "  I  stand  outside  the  gates." 

She  knew  him,  despite  his  love,  to  be  one  who  would 
not  stand  there  long.  Nor  was  she  the  woman  to  keep 
him  there.  He  had  done  against  her  an  unpardonable 
thing,  but  were  there  not  years  and  years  before  of  her 
kind  "  Uncle  Tony,"  who  had  ever  been  infinitely 
good  to  her  ? 

She  stretched  out  a  hand  which  was  more  eloquent 
than  her  trembling  lips  could  have  been.  In  a  moment 
he  was  up  the  space  and  on  his  knee  before  her. 

Despite  the  convictions  of  popular  novelists  it  is  not 
customary  for  men  to  propose  upon  their  knees.  When 
men  and  women  are  in  earnest  an  act  so  histrionic 
would  strike  a  false  note.  A  look,  a  half-articulate 
murmur  and  the  thing  is  done  —  a  compact  for  life, 
sometimes  for  eternity,  sealed. 

But  Burghwallis,  fiercely  kissing  her  hand,  dropped 
for  a  moment  on  a  knee. 


The  Last  373 

It  said  that  which  could  not  have  been  said  in  words 
without  sadly  shaming  both  of  them. 

Yet  after  what  had  happened  the  case  required  to 
be  formulated. 

"  Dearest,  will  you  be  my  wife?  " 

She  sobbed  her  consent  and  her  content  upon  his 
breast. 

She  was  rapt  into  a  world  of  strange  dimensions, 
of  fire,  of  stars,  of  rain,  of  dew  and  roses,  of  tears  and 
laughter,  pain  and  rapture,  of  throbbing  flesh  and 
mingling  souls,  of  the  divine  and  human  mystery 
which  is  love,  which  sets  all  the  potencies  of  Nature 
at  one  moment  in  a  cup  to  mortal  lips.  In  that 
moment  man  and  woman  ring  the  changes  of  the 
Universe,  which  has  at  one  end  a  fond  human  hand, 
at  the  other  —  God. 

Then  the  vision  is  gone  and  they  realise  only  the 
dear  hand. 

And  the  first  thing  Alma  said  on  realising  this  was : 

"  Oh !  I  am  not  Sarah  Munnings'  daughter,  Tony." 

To  which  he  protested  that  this  was  a  mere  trifle. 
Although,  of  course,  he  was  profoundly  relieved. 


THE   END. 


"  Oppenheim's  Latest  Success  " 


THE  MISSIONER 


By  E.    PHILLIPS   OPPENHEIM 

Fully  Illustrated.         12mo.        Cloth.        $1.50 


Action,  excitement,  and  mystery  are  three  ingredients 
always  found  in  Mr.  Oppenheim's  novels.  His  new  story, 
"  The  Missioner,"  is  the  compound  of  love  and  adventure 
which  this  author  so  deftly  produces,  and  his  characters 
have  more  than  their  usual  individuality. 

"The  Missioner's  "  heroine  is  a  beautiful  English  woman, 
of  the  aristocratic  class,  rich,  frivolous,  and  worldly.  The 
hero  is  a  young  man  of  great  personal  magnetism,  high 
ideals,  and  unused  to  the  insincerities  of  society.  Her 
fashionable  amusements  and  his  work  in  the  slums  we  the 
antipodes  from  which  they  both  move  to  meet  on  the 
common  ground  made  possible  by  their  mutual  interest  and 
appreciation.  But  the  lady  has  a  mystery,  and  the  suitor 
has  an  arduous  task  in  clearing  away  the  complications. 

The  book  has  more  the  air  of  verisimilitude  than  have 
some  of  Mr.  Oppenheim's  previous  works,  and  it  gains  in 
strength  from  the  very  likelihood  of  its  happenings.  It 
moves  at  a  breathless  rate  from  the  country  to  London,  to 
Paris  and  back  again,  and  the  reader's  interest  keeps  pace. 

Those  who  read  "The  Missioner"  in  serial  form  pro- 
nounced it  the  best  story  that  this  master  of  romance  has 
yet  written. 


LITTLE,  BROWN,  &    CO.,  PUBLISHERS 
254  WASHINGTON  STREET,  BOSTON 


An  exceedingly  clever  volume.  —  BOSTON  GLOBE 


AN 
ORIGINAL  GENTLEMAN 


By  ANNE  WARNER 

Author  of  "  The  Rejuvenation  of  Aunt  Mary,"  the  "  Susan 
Clegg  "  books,  etc. 

Frontispiece  by  Alice  Barber  Stephens.    Cloth.    $1.50 


Merry  reading  indeed.  —  New  York  Tribune. 

All  are  humorous.  ...  In  none  is  dialect  used.  —  New 
York  Sun, 

The  book  brings  out  new  possibilities  in  the  author's 
work  and  will  add  much  to  her  popularity.  —  Springfield 
Republican. 

Humor  and  novelty  of  plot  characterize  most  of  the 
stories,  and  they  are  entirely  worthy  of  the  creator  of 
"Susan  Clegg"  and  "Aunt  Mary." —  Syracuse  Herald. 

Crisply  told,  quaintly  humorous.  .  .  .  Only  a  woman 
with  discernment  and  tenderness,  and  only  an  artist 
could  make  characters  live  and  breathe  as  hers  do. 
—  Boston  Transcript. 

Exhibits  her  cleverness  and  her  sense  of  humor.  .  .  . 
Show  much  of  that  humor  in  the  conception  and  that  skill 
in  droll  delineation  of  character  which  first  brought  Anne 
"Warner  into  notice  with  her  "Susan  Clegg"  stories. — New 
York  Times.  

LITTLE,  BROWN,  &  CO.,  PUBLISHERS 
254  WASHINGTON  STREET,  BOSTON 


THREE  OF  A  KIND 


By  RICHARD   BURTON 
Illustrated  by  Frank  T.  Merrill     12mo.     Goth.    $1.50 


Sweet  and  wholesome.  —  Duluth  Herald. 

Possess  a  heart  interest.  — Portland  (Ore.)  Oregonian. 

He  has  actually  invented  an  original  Christmas  scene. 

—  Boston  Transcript. 

A  refreshing  exception  to  the  usual  run  of  stories. — 
Wilmington  (Del.)  News. 

A  story  that  seizes  the  interest  and  touches  the  heart. 

—  University  of  Minnesota  Daily. 

It  has  humor  and  quaintness.  "  Dun  "  deserves  to  line 
up  beside  Rab.  —  New  York  Times. 

Fresh  breath  of  the  air  of  romance  and  a  touch  of  the 
realism  that  cheers.  —  Minneapolis  Tribune. 

A  tender  and  affecting  narrative,  written  with  sym- 
pathy and  rare  touches  of  humanity.  — Philadelphia  Record. 

A  touching  story  of  the  love  and  faith  of  a  man,  a  waif, 
and  a  dog,  all  through  the  trials  of  many  unprosperous 
days.  —  Boston  Globe, 

A  story  that  touches  the  heart  by  its  sound  sentiment 
and  its  wholesome  humor  and  fine  optimism.  —  Minneapolis 
Journal. 


LITTLE,  BROWN,  &    CO.,   PUBLISHERS 
254  WASHINGTON  STREET,  BOSTON 


Unique  among  novels  " 


THE  MAN 
WHO  ENDED  WAR 


By  HOLLIS   GODFREY 

Illustrated  by  Ch.  Grunwald.     12mo.     Cloth.    $1.50 


Only  anticipates  events  a  few  years.  —  Chicago  Tribune. 

Holds  the  reader's  interest  relentlessly.  —  Chicago  Record- 
Herald. 

Vigor  and  imagination  lend  vitality  to  the  plot.  — New 
York  Times. 

A  reincarnation  of  an  improved  Jules  Verne.  —  Portland 
Oregonian. 

A  pretty   love  story  adds  zest  to  the  narrative. — 
St.  Louis  Globe-Democrat. 

Hollis    Godfrey   has  taken  a  stupendous  theme  and 
written  a  most  amazing  story.  —  Boston  Globe. 

The  handling  of  the  various  scenes  is  most  excellent  and 
even  masterly.  —  Boston  Transcript. 

Those  who  like  their  fiction  full  of  mystery  will  revel  in 
this  galloping  narrative.  —  New  York  Evening  Sun. 

Shows  uncommon  skill  in  utilization  of  the  gigantic 
possibilities  of  modern  discovery.  —  Boston  Advertiser. 


LITTLE,  BROWN,  &   CO.,  PUBLISHERS 
254  WASHINGTON  STREET,  BOSTON 


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